


While Angels Watched

by Sharlot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Sick!Dean, Teenage Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 60,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharlot/pseuds/Sharlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a young, vibrant hunter with a keen sense of purpose, itching to prove himself. When a sudden, catastrophic illness strikes him down, Heaven and Earth collide in a desperate race to save his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thy Will Be Done

**Author's Note:**

> Translations for nonsensical dialogue are provided at the end of each applicable chapter. 
> 
> I want to thank Numpy and NongPradu for their amazing beta work. These incredible women have extremely busy lives yet still found time to give a person they’ve never met their undivided attention, and for that I am profoundly in their debt. My thanks also go to my good buddy Beckydaspatz who gave the tale a thorough read-thru and kindly provided me with some lovely feedback prior to posting.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for choosing to read my story.

 

A frosty halo girdled the last quarter moon, strengthening its dwindling light.  It had been waning steadily, withering to nothing night after night as the hunt for the skinwalker continued to test John’s patience—and apparently his good sense.  Dean standing next to him well after midnight on a school-night, as energetic as a colt and woofing out puffs of white steam into the frozen January air was proof enough of that.   The old hunter could hear the crunch of boot on snow as the teen champed and cantered his way to the open trunk of the Impala, could hear the quick breathy gasp of _Hello there, darlin’! Come to papa!_ as the boy gleefully rubbed his chilly hands together in anticipation and hefted out a large crossbow, tickling the weapon with light, loving fingers.  He strapped on a quiver of silver-tipped bolts with an enthusiastic chuckle, and John had to concede that the boy looked more hedonistic, vibrant and alive than he’d ever seen him.  And truth be told, it was a beautiful sight.  But this shit wasn’t going to fly.  Not tonight.

“Dean, what the hell are you doing?” John swung around to the trunk and loomed there until Dean stopped wooing the crossbow.

“Uh…” Dean’s smoky breath hung suspended in the still air, offsetting his red nose and flushed cheeks.  The kid took a quick snuff in and quirked a brow at his father.  “I’m gearing up.  What does it look like?”  He waved the bulky crossbow a little clumsily, forcing John to reach out and steady it. 

“The hell you are, boy,” John huffed.  “I said you could tag along and _watch_.  You’re not officially on this hunt, and you sure as hell aren’t going to be wielding that thing.”

Dean had assisted on several salt-and-burns, had even spent four days in the hospital after a hunt for a poltergeist had soured the previous summer, but John had a hard and fast rule about hunting flesh and blood: no hunting anything that could eat your heart, change you into a beast or steal your identity until Dean was at least sixteen.  If he’d told Dean once, he’d told him a hundred times.  Of course, there was one little hitch in that rule tonight, but he didn’t know that and Dean never said a word.

John pulled a silver knife from his waistband.  “Here,” he said.  “You carry this, and only for defense.”

“Dad!  C’mon, I got this.  I’ve been kicking ass with this thing in target practice for ages now.”  Dean held fast to the crossbow and shrugged off John’s attempt to pass him the knife.  “Ask Sammy.”  Dean tromped through crusty tire-tracks toward the backseat window, hollow ice shattering like glass beneath his feet.  “Tell him, Sammy.”  The younger boy inside barely noticed the exchange; his head was bent over a book, trying to read by the moonlight that Dean was now blocking.  “Dork, tell him!”  Dean tapped the glass.  Sam rolled down the window and glanced from crossbow, to Dean, to John.

“He’s good, Dad,” he confessed.  “He’s really good.”  Dean beamed his thanks to Sam and gave his father a _what-did-I-tell-you?_ shrug.

“It’s not going to happen, Dean,” John said flatly.  “I’ve made myself perfectly clear, not until you’re sixteen.  Now take the damn knife.”

Sam huffed out a disgusted snort.  “Uh, Dad…” he began, but Dean quickly caught his brother’s eye and shook his head quietly, cutting in.

“C’mon Dad.  I’ll only use it for defense.  Someone has to watch your back.  I swear I won’t shoot.  Look, you know I won’t shoot, Dad.  I won’t have to, because you’re the shit, and you’re gonna get this thing.  Huh?  Right?”  Apparently the kid must have thought a little sucking up couldn’t hurt.  “Look, I’ll take the knife, too.”  Dean rubbed the back of his neck while John wavered slightly—a rare opportunity that Dean snatched with both hands.  “I even promise not to bolt your shriveled, old ass,” he added with a grin. 

“Watch that smart mouth of yours,” John barked with no real bite. “Or I’ll smack the smart right out of it.”

Dean pshawed, swirling his finger around his face.  “And damage this piece of awesome?  I don’t think so,” he snorted.

“Yeah, your awesome _girl-face_ ,” Sam chaffed through the window.  “All the chicks who dig you are just lesbians and don’t know it yet.  They just like your girlie-face!”  Dean reached through the window trying to grab a fistful of pudge, but the boy was too fast.  Sam scooted out of reach and taunted his brother with an insane cackle.  Dean dove after him.

“Knock it off.  Goddammit, Dean—focus!” John’s voice went low—subterranean—and Dean immediately snapped to attention, all play gone, done and over.  The hardened hunter continued to regard the teen silently, sizing him up.  “Focus or I’m leaving you in the car with Sam.  This isn’t a goddamned joke.”

“I’m...I’m sorry, Sir.  I’m here.  I’m good.  I’m ready.”  He looked at his father, pleading—convincing.  “I swear to god I’m ready.”

John studied the teen for another moment before pointing his finger, giving his son an articulate jab.  “You’re in this as an observer only.  You stay back; keep your mouth shut and your eyes peeled.  Don’t even think of being a goddamned hero.  We clear?”

“We’re clear, Sir,” Dean obediently assured him.  He stood, a ramrod—crisp and stiff, waiting for his father to reclaim the crossbow.  He never did.  John handed him the silver knife and reached into the trunk, pulling out another crossbow and hefting it onto his shoulder.  He closed the trunk, tossing the keys to Sam.  “Stay warm,” he said.

John gave Dean a final once-over before barking orders.  “Move it out, Son.”  Dean’s eyes widened before he could quickly lid his surprise.  The young hunter let the crossbow rest against his shoulder and gave his father a sharp, determined nod, assuring him that he wouldn’t let him down.  John acknowledged the unspoken promise with a brief nod of his own, breaking eye contact as he strode toward the cluster of snow-dusted pines.  Dean relaxed and turned to Sammy, giving his brother a wide grin.  Sam popped his head out of the window; he looked worried.

“Got the gun?” Dean asked.  Sam exhibited it with a nod.

“Got it, Dean,” he said.

“Silver bullets?”

“Duh.”  Sam rolled his eyes. 

“This is important, Doofus,” Dean lectured.

“M’not a kid,” Sam complained.

“Well, technically, you are,” Dean said.  “But you’re a wicked smart one.”  Sam brightened at the compliment but sobered immediately.

“Don’t look it in the eyes.  Remember, Dean,” Sam instructed.

“Duh.”  Dean mimicked his brother, his tone spiced with mock sarcasm.  But Sam wouldn’t be baited.  He was serious.

“Dean…be careful,” he begged.

“Don’t worry, Squirt.  _Careful_ ’s my middle name,” Dean said, pumping the crossbow up and down in his grip, curling his lip in a playful sneer.  He gave his stiff neck another squeeze, loosening it up and then tossed a finger in his brother’s direction.  “Lock the doors, Sammy.  Don’t come out until we get back.”  Sam sighed and nodded, his head morphing into the reflection of the haloed moon as the boy slowly rolled up the window.  Dean gave Sam one last enthusiastic thumbs-up, then turned and ran to catch up with his father.

* *

The snow was so dry it squeaked beneath Dean’s boots.  The thermometer had registered a mere eighteen degrees when Dean’d last checked before leaving Provo.  Here in the foothills, it had to be at least five degrees colder.  Dean wiggled his fingers around the crossbow, trying to keep his circulation going.  He snuffed and wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his free hand, stealthily stepping directly in his father’s boot-prints with feline grace.  The snowfall hadn’t been much, just a couple of inches, but he wanted to leave as little evidence of their passing as possible.  If the bastard came upon their trail, best for it to assume there was only one hunter out there.  They’d moved from tree cluster to tree cluster without seeing any footprint or sign of a single creature, living, dead or undead—and that alone set them on high-alert.  After hiking for at least half an hour to the south of Y Mountain, the hunters broke into a small clearing.  John signaled a halt and looked around, sniffing the air.  Dean followed suit, surreptitiously of course, since he didn’t know what he was trying to smell, but he sensed nothing beyond the trees and snow. 

John studied the clearing for a few minutes, surveying the terrain and forming his strategy.  He silently signaled for Dean to head toward a bank of trees, walking him over to one and glancing up.  Dean got the point.  John offered a hand as a boost, and Dean soon found himself looking for a good spot to perch with his gear—shadow, pine needles and dark clothing making him nearly invisible.  Looking down at his dad, John’s face was stern as he signaled the rest of his orders.  _Don’t move.  Keep watch.  Don’t shoot.  Stay safe.  Goddamn it, I mean it, Dean!_  The teen silently nodded, serious and on-task.  Dean knew when to push and when to be a good soldier.  This was no time to push.

Once settled as high as he could get safely, Dean watched John walk into the clearing, stopping in a patch of moonlight, baiting whatever he’d sensed was nearby to show itself.  The young hunter silently cocked the crossbow and draped the rope-cock over a nearby branch.  He was so focused that he barely felt the pain when he jabbed his hand into a stiff and pointed protruding twig.  He picked the wood out and gave his palm a quick lick.  It was too cold to bleed much.  Wiping his hand on his jacket, he got back to work, silently setting the bolt in the track and releasing the safety.  Rolling his shoulders and neck to release the tension that seemed to have pooled there, the boy soundlessly steadied his grip on the finger flange and waited, paradoxically both taut and loose—centered, primed.  His breath smoked white.  He was ready.  So, so ready.

Despite his awkward stance in the tree, the burn of fatigue had no time to set into Dean’s muscles before the skinwalker showed up as a dark smudge on the other side of the clearing.  It prowled through the scrub and underbrush, sucking in the moonlight, reflecting absolutely nothing back.  It was blacker than a shadow, an inky silhouette patrolling the circumference of the clearing.  The beast kept its prey under surveillance, edging still closer.  Dean could see its intended target and noted that John was well aware of it, eying the creature with deadly scrutiny, waiting until his shot was unobstructed and clean.  The teen could see the severe set of his father’s shoulders and knew the skinwalker would never get the meal it sought.  Dean drew his own crossbow close, could feel the pulse in his head so strong that it ached as it fluttered against the icy scope.  Elevated as he was, he drew an easy bead on the skinwalker.  His dad had the situation completely under control, perhaps, but Dean wasn’t going to let the thing out of his sight for a moment, not until the ugly sucker was good and dead.  The young hunter watched John poise the crossbow one final time just as an unexpected snarl from the trees changed everything. 

Dean stopped breathing, and the next few seconds played out in slow motion, his brain breaking time down into fractions and frames, processing, cataloguing and filing each new bit of data as the event unfolded.  When the second, closer, skinwalker attacked from the shelter of the trees, John spun around in one fluid motion, releasing the bolt.  It hit the new target with a satisfying crack as ribs were crushed and the heart was penetrated.  The beast was thrown back by the force of it and began its death-throes, twitching and jerking as the creature transformed back to its original human form.

Dean’s trigger-finger twinged despite all orders he was given.  Those orders were now the only thing keeping him from taking his shot.  The second skinwalker had been a complete surprise.  There had been absolutely no indication in their investigation that the deaths near Provo had been the work of a tag-team.  Still, a lifetime of being relentlessly tapped and molded into the perfect soldier had its effect, and his father’s conditioning overrode his instinctual reflexes for the next few tenths of a second.  As the first skinwalker lunged, Dean watched his father toss the useless crossbow away and reach for his knife—the knife that Dean suddenly realized wasn’t going to be there.  Because John had handed it over to him.  And Dean was certain that he hadn’t taken another one—distracted, perhaps, by his fight for the crossbow or the boys’ unprofessional horseplay.  Dean didn’t consciously make the decision.  There was nothing to decide; no amount of training or inculcation would ever ultimately override Dean’s one basal instinct that trumped all else— _protect_. 

The skinwalker toppled over with a grunt before Dean even realized he’d pulled the trigger.

* *

Very little was said as John and Dean collected wood and duff for the fire and dragged the bodies over to the makeshift pyre in the clearing.  Once the bodies were engulfed, belching smoke and gas and filling the frigid air with a feral, fusty odor, the two hunters stood side by side tending the fire.  Dean watched the reflection of the flames licking John’s gritty face in his periphery.  He tried to work the pretzeled tension out of the back of his neck, waiting for his father to tear him a new one.  Dean’s tongue was a tacky lump of chalk in his throat.  Finally, John spoke.

“I thought I told you not to fire.”

Dean was almost relieved.  He knew this was going to be harsh and unsparing, but he also hoped it would soon be over.  “You did, Sir,” Dean said, eyes on the flames. 

“I told you to observe only.”

“You did, Sir.”  Dean’s stiff neck was starting to make the base of his head throb a little.  He wished his father would just get on with it, already.  John fed a few more branches into the pyre, causing a swarm of sparks to flutter away before stepping back and resuming his debriefing. 

“So, you disobeyed a direct order?”

“I did.”  Dean shifted and faltered.  “I...”  He swallowed thickly and then mastered himself.  “I assessed the situation—weighed my options and made the right decision.  I wasn’t going to let you die.”  He looked at John.  “I had your knife.  I’m sorry, Sir.”

John watched the fire.  The man was frustratingly unreadable. 

“Dad, I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again,” Dean said, but John held up a halting hand.

“My not having a knife is on me,” he said, folding his arms with a quick sniff.   “Was my responsibility.”

Dean looked at his father, stunned.   “I distracted you.”

“And I’m trained to handle distractions.”  Dean didn’t know what to say to that.  His Dad was so…unpredictable.  The elder hunter studied the shock on his son’s pale face.  “You made the right call.”  John turned back to the fire again, his jaw twitching.  Dean merely stood there in stupefied silence.

Another long pause stretched itself out, filled only with the pop of wood and the sizzle of burning bodies.  “So,” John ventured again, looking sideways at his son.  “First kill, huh?”

Dean blinked out of his trance, realizing that things were going to play out a whole different way from what he’d been expecting.  “Yessir.” 

John nodded and blew out a lungful of steam, contemplating the pyre for a long moment.  “Lucky shot,” he conceded.  The tension between the two dissolved with Dean’s nickering snort.

“Lucky my ass, old man.”  Dean’s mouth blossomed into a pure, cocky smirk. He licked his chapped lips and smacked them together. “I’m, like…I’m like fuckin’ Batman or something.” 

“Oh, you’re somethin’ all right.”

“I’m the somethin’ that saved your ass,” Dean said playfully and turned to warm his hands at the fire.

John cuffed his son.  “You’ve got a filthy mouth.  You know that?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said.  “Raised by a Marine, dude… _hello_!”  John merely grunted and threw the last branch onto the pyre.  As Dean watched the skinwalkers’ bones collapse into the glowing cinders, he couldn’t help but think about what had occurred.  His first kill.  Other kids his age were worried about complete mindless shit—test scores and pom-poms, making the football team or contemplating suicide over a zit on prom night.  They had no idea—no idea at all.  Dean stood listening to the last of the body-fat hiss as it dripped into the coals, until only the flapping of dry, scorching flames remained.  He wondered what any one of his classmates would do if they’d witnessed half the things he’d seen.  He looked at his Dad and knew that the man was proud of him.   He didn’t say it; he didn’t really need to.  Dean spoke his language.  His dad said he’d made the right call.  And that right there?  That was…that was—man—that was an amazing feeling.

Dean understood there was no real cure for the cold grief of loss, but he could fully grasp now why his father did this job.  He’d made a difference tonight.  Dean had made the world just a fraction safer than it had been.  Nothing could replace his mother, but it felt damn good knowing that perhaps tonight, somewhere, some kid didn’t have to lose _his_ mother, because Dean had killed that skinwalker.  Dean could get behind an idea like that—keeping families safe.  Hell yeah, he could definitely get behind an idea like that.  

“What?” John asked, having seen the boy’s thoughts flicker and ripple across his face, brighter and louder than the firelight.

“What, _what_?”

“You’re standin’ there looking like you’re seeing bare tits for the first time.  What’s up?”

“Nothing,” the teen said.  “This is just…”  He looked at his dad. 

“What?”

Dean gripped the back of his neck, giving it a good tug with his palm and looked at his father.  “This is just the best job ever.”

John snickered.  “Better come back down to earth, champ,” he said.  “We still have a long walk back to the Batmobile.”  Even with the roaring fire at hand, John noticed that Dean could no longer hide his shivering.  The elder hunter swept up a crossbow and handed it to Dean.  “Come on, Sammy’s probably freezing his ass off.” 

“Yep.”  Dean shouldered the weapon and turned to go.

“Hey,” John said, suddenly.  “What’s wrong with your neck?”  Dean turned back, confused.

“What?” Dean stopped and looked at his hand, only just now realizing he’d been rubbing his neck again, consciously acknowledging for the first time the stiffness that had been growing all day.  He shrugged.  “I dunno,” he said truthfully.  “I think I must’a slept on it wrong or something.  S’stiff.”

John watched him a moment and then shouldered his own weapon.  “Make sure you take a hot shower before you hit the sack.” 

They jogged back to the car, partly to get to Sam quickly and partly to keep warm.  The temperature had continued to dip, and Dean could barely feel his toes anymore.  He was relieved when the Impala came into view.  

Sam looked tired and cold and utterly relieved when he spotted the duo.  Dean watched as his brother scanned them for injuries and noticed the kid’s tension drain away when he saw that both hunters were solid and whole.

“Did you get it?” Sam asked as he passed John the keys through the window. 

“Don’t you mean _them_? And, yep…crispy critters—both of them!” Dean boasted, holding the crossbow aloft like a trophy.   Sam’s jaw hung loosely. 

“Two of them?”

Dean passed the knife to John who had the trunk open.  “Two of them,” Dean confirmed.  “Dead and dead.  Got a notch to scrape into my crossbow tomorrow, dude.”

“ _You_ got one?” Sam gaped.  “Holy crap, Dean!”

Dean and John stored the rest of the weapons and blustered into the front seat, cold excitement radiating off of them. 

“Not too shabby for a fifteen year old,” John indulged his son.  He started the car and pulled away.

Sam rolled his eyes, disgusted.  “Uh, yeah, not so much, Dad,” he said.  Dean flicked Sam’s neck hastily. “Ow, freak!” Sam spat and kneed the back of Dean’s seat.

“Shut up, Princess.  Don’t rain on my skinwalker parade,” Dean laughed, lurching halfway into the backseat to harrow his brother some more.  Several more elbows and fists flew before John sternly demanded a ceasefire. 

Dean sniggered and fed a tape into the stereo, turning up the volume.  Looking back, he watched the Impala’s taillights leak a bloody trail onto the icy road behind them.  He gave his brother one last thwap and a wicked grin before facing forward and settling.   

He rolled his sore neck and shoulders against the seat.  “Just like Batman, dude,” he said with a satisfied sigh.

* *

Despite all of the excitement, Dean was utterly drained when he finally folded himself into bed.  Even after showering, his body still tingled with cold, and his neck continued to nag him.  He massaged it against his pillow, trying to find a comfortable position.  On the other side of the room, he heard Sam rise on his elbow.

“How come you didn’t say anything, Dean?” the boy asked softly, breaking the quiet. 

Dean was truly mystified for a moment.  Trying to work the tension out of his neck, he was giving more thought to that than to Sam.  “Huh?”

“Dad’s a jerk.  He didn’t even remember.  You should have said something.”

Dean flopped on his back, worked a trench into his pillow and sunk into it, letting his arms relax against his chest. 

“It doesn’t matter, dude,” he sighed. 

“Yes it does, Dean,” Sam argued, his voice becoming atonal with passion. 

“Shhhh, keep your voice down, _Mouth_ ,” Dean scolded with a whisper.  “It’s not his fault.  He’s got a lot on his mind, Sammy.  You need to stop sweating this type of shit.  Hunting and finding the bastard that killed Mom is more important.  Just give it a rest already.”

“Dean…”

“Go to sleep Sammy.  I’m tired and I’d like to get at least a few hours before we have to get up for school.”  Dean closed his eyes, trying to tune out his brother.  Sam coughed out a huff of frustration and settled back down.  The room stilled, and Dean was lulled by the violet moonlight blanketing his bed.  Just as he was drifting off he heard his brother roll over.

“Happy Birthday, Dean,” the boy murmured over his shoulder.

“Thanks Sammy.”

“So, I guess this makes you s _weet_ sixteen now, huh Ringwald?”  Sam smirked in the dark.

“Shut the fuck up, Sammy.”

* *

Dean leapt from his bed well before the alarm was set to go off.  Not even two hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep, but he was suddenly fully roused and hyper-alert.  Perhaps he was still riding the adrenaline high from the hunt or maybe his short power nap truly lived up to its name.  Either way, he was ready, able and itching to move.  He was good.  Hell, he was better than good; he was fan-fucking-tastic.  He threw a pair of dirty socks at Sam, but the boy merely groaned and rolled onto his stomach.

“Up, kiddo.  Let’s go for a run!” Dean laughed.  He felt like a powder keg of energy, and he needed to release a little TNT before he blew himself up.  Jesus, he felt great.  He dropped to the floor and began doing a series of pushups, clapping between each thrust to annoy Sam as much as possible.  He really needed a good run.  Normally he dreaded it, but, not today—not after taking down his first skinwalker and certainly not while riding whatever high he was currently on.  Besides, pushups weren’t really getting the job done.  He tried switching to sit-ups, doing several sets in rapid succession before giving up.  Only running some sprints was going to burn off this much excess energy.  He hopped up, snapped on the overhead light and grabbed Sam’s foot under the covers, giving it a good tug.

“Up little man,” he said.  “Come on, we have time to train for a while before school,” he urged.

“F’off Dean.  It’s still dark,” Sam mumbled into his pillow and burrowed deeper.

“Aw, c’mon Sammy.  Don’t be a wuss.  Show me some of that Winchester spirit, now,” he said, snatching the pillow away and tossing it aside.  He held Sam down and tried to smear his sweaty armpit on the boy’s face. “Smell the flowers, dude!”

Luckily for Sam, Dean missed his mark and smeared his shoulder instead, but it had the same effect.  Sam’s faced turned rosy with rage, looking as close to popping a vein as he’d ever come in his eleven years of being on the receiving end of Dean’s bodily _gifts_.  “Get _OFF_!” he shouted, his voice thorny, his chest heaving as he tried to kick out at his brother.  Dean caught a blanketed foot in his ribs, throwing him slightly off balance before he recovered.

“Jesus Sam, you don’t need to be a little bitch about it,” Dean groused.  "See if I ever trammer man wuhh—wwwuh—wave nor over up a chain. Berry lumber bid with the jewel, be over some over my dog carrot!"  Dean gave his brother a disgusted look and turned to snatch up his clothes.

“God, Dean.  You’re such a freak!  Shhurrbur-duurbur-doo to you, too,” Sam bitched as he pushed back the covers with groggy indignation.  He swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat a moment trying to get his bearings and wipe Dean’s sweat off him, releasing a groan when he looked at the clock.  Looking up, he noticed that Dean was still bent over the bed, seemingly frozen in mid-grab for his clothes, blinking slowly.  His mouth was opening and closing soundlessly.  “Dude, that’s rank.  Take a shower,” Sam snapped as he wiped the last of the perspiration off of him with his sheet.      

Dean twitched in Sam’s direction when the boy spoke, but he looked dazed.  Suddenly his face pinched with pain, and he gasped, reaching for the back of his head.  “Mmmhhhuuuunh,” he moaned, rubbing the base of his neck.

Sam bobbled as his brain rebooted after having been yanked from sleep so abruptly.  He stared at Dean another listless moment.  “We only just got to bed,” he complained.  His brother didn’t answer—hadn’t spoken since Sam had kicked him in the stomach.  “You OK, Dean?” he asked.  “I didn’t mean to kick you that hard.  I didn’t, did I?” 

Dean’s lashes fluttered, and he brought his other hand up to his forehead, cradling his head.  His thumb and forefinger were repeatedly tapping together in a twitchy, fun-house version of the “OK” symbol.  He looked anything but OK. 

“Dean?” Sam asked again, suddenly on his feet and moving over to his brother. 

Dean slumped onto the bed.  “Ghhhuh…Forming!” he bit out.  “No yes in the socket d—duh—derla hover. Herbs! My coming isn’t amma walking isn’t and any.  Ughhhh, Sibbin. Sibbin. Mmmnnuhhh!”  His teeth started to chatter and he looked at Sam, surprised and desperate.  Sam reached out and tried to touch his brother’s head, but Dean pulled back.  “Going hurdle on the side…” he pled, shaking him off. 

“I’m getting Dad.”  

Sam was already calling out his father’s name shrilly before he’d even stood up.  He briefly ran from the room and returned seconds later with a very startled and discombobulated John—torn from his whiskey sleep.  Sam was giving him the run-down even as John knelt by Dean.

“He was fine, Dad,” he said as John’s eyes swept over Dean.  “He was joking around, rough-housing, and then he just…”  Sam looked at Dean as he rocked back and forth in agony.  “He just started talking weird and holding his head.” 

John tried to pry Dean’s hands away from his head, but the boy fought him, moaning out in misery.  The teen suddenly lurched up and wrenched his hand away from his eyes.  They stuttered and staggered around frantically, finally landing on his father. 

“Rrr—Remur?” he whispered haltingly, looking confused.  John immediately peeled back Dean’s eyelids, examining the pupils. 

“Sonofabitch!”  John swore, seeing that the kid’s eyes were almost fully dilated.  “Dean?  Dean, can you hear me?” Dean looked at him and swallowed once, then twice, and then a few more times before John realized he either wouldn’t or couldn’t answer.  John spun toward Sam.  “Did he hit his head?”  Sam stood there shocked, gaping.  “Sam!” John grabbed the boy’s arm and shook, getting the child to snap out of it.  “Did he hit his head?” he asked again.

“N—no Dad,” Sam assured him.  “No!  We were—he was…God, we were just messing around.  He was trying to get me out of bed, and I kicked at him.  I got him in his ribs, but I didn’t even get a good hit in, Dad.  I swear it.”  Sam looked crushed.  “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

Dean swallowed again and reached for Sam.  “Sibbin?  Sibbin, by the reff lemon.” He tried to fist his brother’s T-shirt but missed, and his hand didn’t seem to have the strength to try to make contact again.  He moaned out again and turned his anguished eyes on his father, continuing to tap his thumb and forefinger together with each word.  “Can in do is me is cockle…c—cockle, cockle…cockle…cockle every.  Nnnnhhuhhhh!” he cried out, wincing.  His face was sweaty, and John tried to take his pulse as the boy attempted to communicate.

“Burrs Sib—Sibbin, Remur?  Remur?  In the ball…”  He clutched his head.  “In my forest on my me tool turkey.”

“Dad?” Sam asked with tears starting in his eyes.  “I swear I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

John released Dean’s wrist, coming out of his thoughts.  He looked up at Sam.   “I don’t think you did this, Sammy.”

“Was it the skinwalker?” Sam asked with wide, fearful eyes.  “Did it look him in the eye?”

John scooped Dean toward him, letting the boy’s cheek rest against his chest, rubbing his shoulders, searching and probing the back of Dean’s head for the source of his pain.  There was no lump, no goose-egg—nothing.  “No.  This has nothing to do with that; I’m certain.”

“Is he having a seizure?”  Sam put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, patting it, trying to offer what comfort he could.

“I don’t know.  Maybe.” John said, looking grim.  He looked around and pointed.  “We need to go.  Give me that blanket, there.”  Sam acted immediately.  Taking the cover, John began wrapping it around Dean as best he could.  “Sammy, go get dressed and when you’re done, go grab my clothes and shoes for me.” 

Once Sam was set on-task, John continued to get the blanket situated around Dean.  “I’m going to have to move you, kiddo.”  Dean cried out and struggled against his father when John tried to lay him back. 

“Naahhhghhh,” he murmured.  Only half open, his eyes sluggishly wandered around the room, far less present than they had been even a moment ago. 

“Stay with me, Dean,” John ordered.  “You’re all right.”  Again, John tried to get Dean’s hands away from his face briefly so that he could pass a shirt over the kid’s head, trying to give him a little dignity for the ride to the hospital.  Dean continued to fight him, forcing the hunter to restrain his son.  “Stop it, Dean,” he said sternly, holding the boy’s hands away from his head and threading them through the sleeves.  Dean gurgled out a moan, releasing his pain in gut-wrenching sobs.   

“On the…On the ever to keeping…marker?  On—on the—on the—on the mini for crime bag …?” He choked on the words when John tried to move him, gulping and swallowing after each repetition before finally breaking himself out of the loop.  “Pensch by the north haven’t timing my other apple hope.  Kind be but me berry girder.”  Dean looked at his father with tearful, heartbroken eyes. 

“I know it hurts.  I know you’re trying your best, bud.  We’ll fix this, OK?”  John stroked his son’s brow, trying to ground him.  “I gotcha.  I gotcha.”

“Remur cob saving factors but ready tohnoh,” Dean said with a fading voice as his eyebrows strove to give lift to his lids.  His lashes quivered and his eyes started to roll back.

“No you don’t!  Keep your eyes open, Dean,” John ordered, pressing a hand against Dean’s chest and shaking a little.  “Keep you goddamned eyes open!  Stay awake, son!”  John watched horrified as his child disobeyed his direct order for the second time that night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_To Be Continued…_ **

**_ Translations: _ **

"See if I ever trammer man wuhh—wwwuh—wave nor over up a chain. Berry lumber bid with the jewel, be over some over my dog carrot!"— **See if I ever try and wake you up again.  Be late for school, for all I care!**

 “Ghhhuh…Forming!”— **Ghhhuh…Fuck!**

“No yes in the socket d—duh—derla hover. Herbs! My coming isn’t amma walking isn’t and any.  Ughhhh, Sibbin. Sibbin. Mmmnnuhhh!”— **I don’t know.  Hurts.  My head is pounding.  Ugh, Sammy.  Sammy.  Mmmmnnuhhh!**

“Going hurdle on the side…”— **Don’t touch me…**

“Rrr—Remur?”— **Dad?**

“Sibbin?  Sibbin, by the reff lemon.”— **Sammy?  Sammy, it’s not your fault.**

“Can in do is me is cockle…c—cockle, cockle…cockle…cockle every.  Nnnnhhuhhhh!”— **My head is k—k—killing me.  Nnnnhhuhhhh!**

“Burrs Sib—Sibbin, Remur?  Remur?  In the ball…”— **Where’s Sammy?  Dad?  Man, my head…**

“In my forest on my me tool turkey.”— **My head is gonna explode.**

“On the…On the ever to keeping…marker?  On—on the—on the—on the mini for crime bag …?”— **Why…why are you doing this?  What did I do wrong?**

“Pensch by the north haven’t timing my other apple hope.  Kind be but me berry girder.”— **Please don’t hurt me anymore.  I’ll be good, I promise.**

“Remur cob saving factors but ready tohnoh,”— **Dad, you’re not making any sense.**


	2. Give Us This Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about medicine that I did not learn from Google or from Numpty. This story is three-parts research, one-part guess work, and one-part pure and utter bullshit. Watch your step. This fic should never be used as a diagnostic tool! :)

 

As the waning moon, its dusty ring now a brighter and tighter band around the disk, sloped toward the west, the sun began its slow surge from the east.  At the same time, the Impala sped north toward Utah Valley Regional Medical Center with Dean balled in the back seat, his head on Sam’s lap.

The pain in the back of his head was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and Dean couldn’t help but cry out as he clung desperately to Sam’s hand.  His awareness was constantly fading and surging; one minute he’d be present, gripping Sam’s hand, the next darkness would come and both consciousness and pain would recede to nothing more than echoes.  Then, suddenly he would be flung back, and he could feel the car-seat beneath him, and the whole loop would begin again.  Streetlights seared his eyelids every two seconds, rotating on a sheave as the car sped down the road, making the pain just that much more unbearable.  The lights pushed him down, down, down into the deep dark, until there was no car and no Sammy.  And then, suddenly, there he was again, another loop completed—Sammy still holding him, Dad still driving like a madman—over and over.  Dean heard the two talking, but he couldn’t make any sense of their words. 

It sounded like English, but it was just to the left—or maybe the right of the language he’d grown up with.  Either way, it was off—comprised of words that weren’t real and words that were real but strung in such random order that they were completely nonsensical.  And they were slippery suckers, too.  Right when he thought he could understand, he’d grab hold of a word only to find that it wasn’t what he thought it was.  Imposters, all of them—words draped in sounds that approximated language but weren’t the real deal—rising and falling like sentences were supposed to, but all ending up turning to gibberish right under his nose.  It was so frustrating, but his head hurt too badly to keep trying to understand them.  He stopped reaching for the words and allowed them to fly over and past him.   

Dean felt Sam’s small hand on his back, rubbing circles like he always did whenever Sam was sick.  Dean wasn’t sure if he was sick or not, but it felt nice, and he wasn’t about to give the little squirt any shit over doing it, either.  He’d play it cool—say nothing at all, pretend that he wasn’t really enjoying the soothing touch.  If he just lay there like a possum, hopefully Sam wouldn’t stop.  Just like with howling and clutching Sammy’s hand, he could always deny everything later if he had to.

He must have lost the thread of his thought or been pushed back down into the dark echoes, because the next thing he knew, he was being lifted into the cold air.  He could smell his dad’s leather jacket, could even faintly make out the scent of whiskey still clinging to the old man’s pores.  The blanket was draped all wrong, though, and the cold was biting him in tender places, brittling his bits.  He hoped to Christ he wasn’t naked.  He did remember to get dressed before getting in the car, didn’t he?  How and why did he get in the car, anyway?  He couldn’t spare any more thought for those questions because there were suddenly more imposter words being jabbered at a very rapid pace all around him—words barked so loudly that he felt nauseous from the pain they caused.  _Hello!  Having the worst headache of my life, here, people!  A little quiet might be nice!_   Next there were hands, so many damned icy hands, all over him—turning, twisting, spinning, yanking him down, down, down, down, down—pulling at his legs, pressing against his arms.  What kind of creature had that many hands?  Suddenly he was moving, and it felt like riding a horse on a carousel, up and down, up and down.  The rhythm became too much.  He felt stretched and anchorless, and he stopped thinking at all.

Whatever peace he’d found in oblivion, it didn’t last very long, and he groaned out his displeasure.  Awareness continued to intrude, albeit fragmented and spliced back together—a patchwork reality.  It was hard to keep track of what was happening.  He felt himself lifted again, and there was more babble around him.  He didn’t recognize these voices, but again, just as with Sammy and Dad, there was no ‘English’ in their English.  This was even worse, though.  Before, he’d at least had the solace of his family’s presence.  Here, he was entirely lost and alone on foreign soil.  He called out for his dad and brother, but they didn’t answer, and he started to panic.  He wanted to get up, wanted to find his way back to the right voices, wanted Sammy to rub his back again.  Hands held him down, though—strong hands and loud voices that refused to make sense.  Enough was enough.  He forced his eyes open and faced his captors.

“Get off of me, you sonsabitches!” He yelled angrily.  “Dad!  Sammy!  Please help me!  Don’t leave me here.  Please!” he begged.  Oh god, did that hurt his head—like twisting razorwire in his brain, and he was sorry he’d tried to call out at all.  Besides, the only thing it had accomplished was to make the hands hold him tighter and the voices chatter louder.

“Tender on the center bite!” one of the voices commanded loudly.

Dean felt a prick on his arm, and, suddenly, the table beneath him began to tilt and pitch back and forth, his head swiveling and pivoting like a ball turret as he glanced from warped figure to warped figure.  Try as he might, he couldn’t do anything to balance or orient himself.  He struggled to get up and leave, but he just stayed right where he was like a sluggish piece of meat, limbs too heavy to maneuver.  His eyes slipped shut and his tongue felt huge.  He was getting really tired.  More needles were pressed into the crook of his arm.  He tried to open his eyes again, but they wouldn’t lift.  The hands that held him down took pity on him, maybe, because they actually opened his lids for him.  The kindness was short-lived, however, because the bastards flashed bright lights right into his eyes.  And that was it.  He was out of there—adios amigos!   He didn’t just fall into the echoes this time, hell, he’d practically augered his way on down, seeking the shelter of that cool, black shaft.  Fucking hands and their lights.  Disembodied phantom words—words—words—words—chased him down into the dark.  But he was getting cold and it was too hard to worry about it all anymore.  Once the voices and lights faded, he found himself in a starless, moonless void, and Dean was left with nothing to think, to do, or to be. 

* *

The electronic door to the Emergency room snipped shut, leaving John and Sam on the wrong side, breathless and shocky.  One nurse lingered behind to gather information and began rattling off questions. 

“What was he doing before he collapsed?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” John admitted.  “We were all sleeping.  Dean woke up and was talking to his brother.”

“He was exercising—hard,” Sam broke in.  “He wanted me to go running, but I didn’t want to.  It was the middle of the night.”  Sam’s eyes started to water.  “I hit him.  Kicked him in his stomach.  I was sleepy.  I didn’t mean it.”  John held the boy’s shoulders. 

“Don’t do that, Sam.  You didn’t hurt him,” he said.  The hunter looked at the nurse.  “They were rough-housing like boys do.”  She nodded.

Sam went on.  “Then he started to talk crazy.  Nothing made sense.”

“Was he slurring his words?  Did he sound drunk?” she asked.  Sam thought about it.

“No,” he said.  “He was talking to me just like he always does, only his words weren’t making any sense.  Then he grabbed his head and started to moan.  That’s when I got my dad.”

“We got him here as fast as we could,” John said.  “It’s only been about 30 minutes since it all started.”

“Did he complain of anything else?  Was he dizzy or nauseous?  Did he complain of any strange smells or a sense of tingling?”

“No, not that I know of,” John said.  “Wait.  He said he had a stiff neck—before he went to bed.  Other than that, he’s been in perfect health.” 

“What’s his name?”

John swallowed.  “Dean.  His name is Dean Winchester,” John said, knowing that he couldn’t give them false information now.  Getting stitched up or setting a broken bone was one thing, something they could drop a fake card on and skip town fast afterwards.  This though—he couldn’t take the chance.  He had no idea how long they’d be here. They’d been in Provo for a couple of months, letting the boys stay in one school for a while.  He’d taken a job at a garage, but Kelly, the owner, was paying him under the table.  There was no real insurance, and John could already feel the weight of that bearing down upon him.

“How old is he?” the nurse asked.  

“He’s fifteen,” John said.

Sam piped up immediately.  “He’s sixteen,” he corrected.

“He’s fifteen, Sam.” John looked at his son like he was crazy.

The child shook his head.  “No dad.  He’s not.  Today’s the 24th.  He’s sixteen.  You forgot.”  Shock and shame tumbled down John’s face like an avalanche. 

“Jesus,” he said under his breath.  He stood there for a few seconds shaking his head at himself. “Dammit” he muttered, fingers clawing through his stubble.   He looked up at the nurse with stricken eyes.  “Sixteen.  Today’s his birthday.  He’s sixteen,” he confessed.  She nodded and hit the button for the door. 

“Have a seat.  Someone will be out to get you started on the paperwork in just a minute,” she said as she disappeared.

John looked down at Sam who was fighting to keep it together.

“Let’s go take a seat, buddy.  They’ll take good care of him.”

“What if it was the skinwalker?  What if it did something to him?” the boy asked.

“I told you, Sam, the skinwalker never touched him.  This doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“What if it cast a spell on him?”  Sam refused to relent.  “What if the doctors can’t help him?  We should call Uncle Bobby.  He can look in his books to make sure.”  He pulled away from John, looking around for a phone.

“We’re not calling Bobby right now.  He can’t help.  Now, dammit, Sam, sit down and be quiet.  Wait and find out what the doctors have to say.”

“Dad…!”  Sam nearly shouted.

“I mean it, Sam,” John demanded.  “Now sit down.”  Sam had no choice but to do as his father said.  John set his hands on the boy’s shoulders until he was compliant. 

“I need to go make a few phone calls,” John said.  “I have to call Kelly and let him know that I won’t be in to work.  And I need to call both schools, tell them what happened and that neither of you will be in today.”  He turned to Sam.  “Stay here.  I’ll be right back.”                

* *

“I told you twice already.  I don’t have insurance, so you’re just going to have to let me talk to someone in your financial department to work things out.  But right now, _madam_ ,” John barked the last word in a hollow parody of respect.  “Right now, I’m going to go sit down and wait to find out if the doctors can save my son’s life.”  The dowdy receptionist winced as his final words bellowed and bounced around the emergency reception area.

“Please keep your voice down, Mr. Winchester or I’ll be forced to call security,” the woman said, attempting to regain control of the situation.  “As soon as the billing department is open, I’ll send someone out to talk to you.  Until then, please take a seat.”

John found his way back to Sam and sat down beside him.  He didn’t say a word as the boy uncharacteristically huddled close.  The hunter quietly lifted his arm and let the boy settle into the crook, draping his arm loosely across Sam’s shoulders. 

“How much longer, do you think?” the boy asked.

“Soon, Sam.  Soon.  Just hang in there, bud.”

It wasn’t soon, though.  Time stretched interminably, minutes into hours, and even then they only received news that wasn’t news:   _They’re getting him stabilized.  We’ll let you know more as soon as possible.  They’re taking him down to Imaging for scans.  They’re waiting for results. They’re doing an angiogram; that will take a few hours.  The doctor will be with you just as soon as he can.  Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee?_

The billing department came to see John and promised to send a financial advisor out to him later to help him apply for children’s charities.  John merely waved them away. 

He looked at his watch again and stood up.  He’d had enough.  It was almost 3:00 pm, and they’d been given no usable information.  Just as he was about to go into full-on hunter mode, a couple of white-coats approached them. 

“Mr. Winchester?  I’m Dr. Bruce Michaels.  I’ve been assigned as your son’s neurologist.  This is Dabria Carr from Visitor Services.”  The plump, but smartly dressed woman bent down to Sam. 

“Hi honey.  My name’s Dab.  What’s yours?”  Sam looked up at his dad, waiting for the OK to talk to the stranger.  John nodded.

“Sam,” he said hesitantly.

“Well, Sam.  How about you and I go down to the canteen and get some hot chocolate while your dad talks to the doctor?”  She reached out her hand.  John’s blood ran cold.  Knowing the doctor didn’t want Sam around for the consultation made the all the saliva in John’s mouth turn to dust.  Sam backed away, shaking his head. 

“No, I want to stay.  I want to see Dean,” he said emphatically.

“You’ll see him, sweetheart.  I promise.  Let’s just go get a little refreshment and let your dad talk to the doctor,” Dab said again, looking to John for support. 

“Go with her, Sam,” John said in a voice that left no room for argument.  “Go on,” he said when Sam hesitated one more time.  Sam sighed and let the woman lead him away.

“I’ll come get you in just a minute,” John said as the child looked back at him pleadingly.  “Go on.”  Once Sam had turned the corner, John looked at the doctor.  “Where’s my son?  What’s wrong with him?”

“Dean’s stable.  He’s resting,” the doctor said, giving the most important assurance he could give.  Dean was alive, and ‘resting’ sounded hopeful.  “We had to run quite a few tests, and it was stressful for him,” the doctor went on.  “He was in a lot of pain and panicking a bit, so we had to sedate him.  They’re going to be sending him up to the PICU in just a bit, and then you can see him.  Let’s head down to my office so we can talk.” he said, turning and beckoning John to follow him.  John moved silently, biting the insides of his cheeks until he tasted blood. 

The doctor led him into his office and closed the door.  “I wanted to do this here so that I can show you Dean’s angiogram and CT scan and explain everything to you.  We have a lot to discuss.”

“What’s wrong with him?  Did he have a stroke?”  John asked, voicing his fear now that Sam was safely out of hearing range.

“No,” the doctor said.  “Actually, he didn’t.  Here,” he said, turning on a white screen and pinning the angiogram and some other scans to it. 

John was handy at first-aid and had a broad working knowledge, but he’d had no real medical training.  Just the same, he didn’t need any expertise to tell him that what he was looking at wasn’t normal.  Down toward the bottom part of the photo a nearly thumb-sized blob appeared rising from a mass of tangled veins and arteries.  “What is that?” he asked.

“That’s a saccular cerebral aneurysm,” the neurologist said, studying the image alongside John.  “And it’s a monster.  One of the largest I’ve ever seen.”  He pointed to the screen.  “What’s happened is the wall of this artery has weakened, and it has ballooned out, creating a little sac that’s filled with blood.  The good news is that it hasn’t ruptured or bled yet,” he said looking at John.  “That’s _really_ good news.  A bleed with an aneurysm this size would be catastrophic.”

John swallowed and raked his hand through his hair.  “If it hasn’t bled yet, then what’s happening to him?”

Dr. Michaels nodded.  “The aneurysm has just grown too large, and my guess is that it’s grown extremely rapidly.  With slower growth, symptoms would have likely presented at a much earlier stage.  Now, see how it’s sitting right here at the base of the brain?  It’s grown so large that it is pushing against his temporal lobe.  That pressure is what has suddenly created his symptoms, the aphasia and temporal seizures.”

“I have no idea what aphasia is,” John said.  He paced a few steps and came back.  “What’s going to happen to him?  What’s the bottom line, here?”

“I’ll get there, John—may I call you that?”  The hunter nodded.  “John, sit down a moment.”  The doctor picked up a large model of the brain, like a 3-D puzzle with removable bits and pieces and set it on the desk in front of the hunter.  He removed the whole top half and side, leaving a quartered version.  He pointed.  “This is the temporal lobe.  This is the part of the brain that handles speech, our understanding of words and the ability to create them.  The pressure that the aneurysm is creating is making things short-circuit a bit, which is causing a classic case of profound Receptive Aphasia.  So everything he says is coming out like a ‘word salad’, right?”  John nodded.  The doctor went on.  “Now, Dean sincerely believes he’s saying the correct words, but what comes out is a scramble of nonsense and words that just don’t belong.”

“How do you fix it?” John said, his anxiety rising.  His leg started to shake, and it bounced up and down as the doctor held up a finger, nodding.

“Once we can get the pressure reduced, the aphasia should hopefully clear up given a little recovery time.  The pressure is also causing some mild temporal seizures.  These can go almost unnoticed if you don’t know what you’re looking at.  He’ll twitch his fingers or start doing a chewing motion with his mouth, and just kind of be ‘gone’ or ‘absent’ for a moment or two.   And just like the aphasia, this should all clear up once we get the aneurysm away from that area of the brain.”  The doctor watched John.  “You with me so far?” 

“How do you get the aneurysm out?  Are you going to have to do brain surgery?”  John asked. 

The doctor hesitated a bit.  “This is where it gets a little sticky, John.  You can’t get there,” he tapped on the base of the brain.  “From here.”  He pointed to the skull.  “Well, not easily, anyway.  The aneurysm is sitting toward the bottom, protruding from this junction of arteries right here in the center and expanding upwards,” he sighed.  “We can’t operate without disrupting blood-flow to the rest of this arterial cluster.  Now, normally when the aneurysm is near the skull we can perform a craniotomy, cut a small opening in the skull and clip the aneurysm, pinching off the wall of the artery so that no more blood can enter the sac.  Chance of a rupture after clipping is quite small, and patients have a very high probability of making a complete recovery.  Unfortunately this aneurysm is too deep, and frankly too large.  We can’t perform the conventional craniotomy here.  With some aneurysms in this part of the brain, we simply let them be if they haven’t ruptured.  But, again, this one is too big.  It’s already causing insult to the brain.  Also, given its size and rapid growth, it is a ticking time-bomb.  I have no doubt that if something is not done, and done soon, it _will_ rupture.  A rupture in this area of the brain, even in a much smaller aneurysm would likely be fatal.”

“Well, what _can_ you do for him, then?”  John asked, fear rising off of him in waves, now.  “Is there anything…?”

Dr. Michaels nodded.  “We want to perform a coil embolization procedure.  This is a newer procedure, but it’s actually minimally invasive compared to brain surgery.  We’ll not have to touch or cut through the skull at all, actually.”  The doctor smiled.  “Dean should be happy that we won’t have to shave his head,” he said.  “Instead we’ll thread a ‘coil’, a platinum wire, through the femoral artery in his leg and guide it up and into the aneurysm.  We’ll displace the blood, reduce the size of the aneurysm and fill the sac with the coil, creating a small, tight clot.  Recovery time is much quicker than with a craniotomy.  The only downside here as opposed to clipping the aneurysm is that there is a higher chance of a subsequent bleed after the coil is in place.  In Dean’s case, the chance of a bleed will be a bit higher given the size of the aneurysm.  We’re not going to be able to fill the entire sac with the coil, since we have to reduce the size to stop the pressure, but this is the only shot we have.  There is nothing further to decide.  It’s either the coil embolization or nothing.  We’ll perform the procedure and watch him closely for the first several days.  The chances of a bleed will be highest in the days directly following the implant.” 

John blew out a long breath.  He got up and began to pace in front of the doctor.  “What sort of percentages are we talking here?”

“I’m cautiously optimistic, John.  Dean is young and healthy—athletic.  On the other hand, I’m not going to lie either.  Any aneurysm is a serious thing, and Dean’s aneurysm is as bad as they can get without actually rupturing.  Like I said, its size is something that I have not seen but maybe once or twice in my career, and I’m very surprised that it _hasn’t_ ruptured yet.  All of that said, with the coil embolization procedure, I give Dean a seventy percent chance of a complete recovery.  But we need to get this done as soon as possible, so I’ve scheduled the procedure for first thing tomorrow morning.”  The doctor rose.  “In the meantime, I’ll page Dab and have her bring Sam up to the PICU waiting room, and you two can go spend time with Dean.”

“What happens to the other thirty percent?” John said huskily. 

“If there is a bleed, then things could deteriorate very rapidly,” he said truthfully.  “A bleed would cause a stroke, resulting in brain damage and, potentially, death.”

“Have you told him anything?  Does Dean know what’s happening to him?” John asked.  The doctor shook his head with a sigh.

“Unfortunately, there is no way to communicate with him right now.  He’s pretty doped up with some heavy duty pain meds and sedatives, but more than that, his aphasia is disrupting normal lines of communication.  The _word-salad_ he’s experiencing is a two-way street.  When he speaks he makes no sense, right?  Well, likewise, when you speak to him, you are also creating a word-salad.  It’s all nonsense to him.  This extends also to reading and writing.  He can do neither right now.  It may also take a little therapy after the procedure to get him back on track.  Don’t be discouraged if he is still experiencing the aphasia and seizures even after the embolization.  Once the pressure is reduced, it may take some time for his brain to come back online as far as language goes.  But I have every reason to believe that both the seizures and the aphasia will clear up.”  John rubbed his stubbled chin, trying to digest everything.  “Come on, John.  Let’s get you upstairs.  I need to make all the preparations for tomorrow and assemble the best team possible.  I’ll be back to see Dean later before I leave this evening.  We’ll get him through the night, and then once the procedure is over tomorrow, all three of you will be feeling much better.  I know it’s frightening.  I have a boy of my own that’s Dean’s age.  If this were my son, I’d be going crazy right about now, too.”

John stood there blinking numbly.  He was a hunter.  He’d killed so many creatures he could no longer keep count.  He’d even killed four humans, all demon possessed at the time, yes, but nevertheless, human.  He’d been a goddamned Marine—he’d survived his tour without a scratch, was trained to handle pressure.  He’d survived shitstorm after shitstorm.  At no time…in no place had John Winchester ever stood, lost and hollow, like a deer in headlights, but that’s exactly how he stood now.  He felt the doctor grip his shoulder and gently guide him awkwardly through the door.  Like some kind of zombie or goddamned death-echo unaware of its surroundings, he shuffled through the halls, up elevators, around bends and through double doors.  It wasn’t until he saw Dab waiting with Sam that he seemed to snap out of his trance.   

 “You can go in,” Dab said in greeting.  “I know you are supposed to meet with someone from Financial Support.  I’ll make sure they know to come here to find you,” she said with a compassionate smile.   “I’ll leave you two to see Dean.  He’s right through those glass doors, first bed on the left.”  John silently nodded his thanks.  Dab patted Sam’s head.  “Thanks for spending some time with me, Sam.  I really enjoyed our visit.”  Without another word, the woman was gone, leaving the Winchesters standing outside the PICU.

“What’s wrong with him, Dad?  What did the doctor say?”  Sam piped up after Dab had disappeared.  John looked down at Sam.

“It’s good news, Sam.  He’s going to be fine.  He has a problem with an artery in his brain, but they are going to fix it.”  He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “Come on.  Let’s go see him and I can explain more inside.”  Sam looked both dubious and frightened. 

“Then why would they make Dab take me to the cafeteria if it was such _good news_?” he said.  The kid was too smart for his own good, but he didn’t have the time for this right now.

“Honestly, Sam.  The doctor said he’s going to be OK.  Let’s go.”

* *

Dean didn’t seem aware that they’d entered.  He was flat on his back, staring off to the side, listless and droopy eyed.  Sweaty hair matted his forehead, and there was a syrupy strand of drool on his chin that made Sam squirm.  It terrified him.  Dean was never supposed to look that fragile and vulnerable.  Still, Sam couldn’t take his eyes off his brother’s slack face and glassy eyes.  It was so wrong—so completely un-Dean-like. 

“Dean?” he called finally, walking up and trying to get in his brother’s line of sight.  “Dean, it’s me, Sam,” he said, reaching for his brother’s hand.  Dean blinked and twitched a little, looking through his brother before his eyes started to hone in, attempting repeatedly to focus.  He stared for a few seconds before his sleepy eyes widened a little. 

“Sibbin!” he said.  The word came out a husky croak.  Dean’s brow pooled and he cleared his throat, trying again.  “Sibbin?”  Stronger this time.

“Yeah, Dean.  I guess that’s me, huh?  You know me, right Dean?”   Sam shook his hand out of his sleeve and gently wiped the drool from Dean’s chin with it.

John walked up on the other side of the bed and rested his hand as gently as he could on Dean’s head, watching his sons watch each other.  “We’re here, son,” he said.   Dean’s eyes sought out the sound of his father’s voice. 

“Re—Remur?  Cry pool nor tweak sane shingle?” he asked with languid confusion, his eyes slightly crossing and falling shut in between attempts to reopen them. 

“Shhhh,” John caressed his son’s head.  He didn’t bother to say anything else.  He softly thumbed Dean’s eyebrow, soothing strokes following the grain of the blond hairs.  

“Why’s he talking like that, Dad?” Sam whispered.  “What’s wrong?  It sounds like he’s under a spell or something,” he said.  “What if the sk…”

“No Sam.  Enough.  It’s not that.”  John continued to caress Dean’s head for a moment.

Sam heaved out a sigh.   “Does he even know who we are?”

“Of course he knows us, Sam.  Did you see how happy he was to see you?  He’s going to be fine; this isn’t permanent.  The doctor said so.  One of his blood vessels is pushing on the speech center of his brain.  They’re going to fix him up tomorrow, and he’ll be back to his old self in a day or two.”

Sam studied his brother suspiciously.  “Christo!” he whispered.  John groaned and thwapped the boy upside the head, lightly.

“Jesus, Sam.  He’s not possessed.”

Sam was unapologetic.  “We had to be sure, Dad.”

“But me by no firs big, pensch,” Dean scolded, holding up his hand in a halting motion before it fell against his chest.

“It sounds so freaky when he talks,” Sam confessed, before turning to Dean and noticing his big brother was watching him intently.  “Sorry, Dean.  You’re not a freak.  It just sounds weird,” he tried to qualify his statement.  Dean studied Sam, his face growing concerned and anxious. 

“Sibbin?” he said.  “Almond nohr keeper?”

“Shhhh,” John said again.  “He can’t understand us anymore than we can understand him right now.”  Dean’s foot stretched out and he tried to twist in the bed, wanting to rise and face his father.

“Remur, bats mown—mown—mown over?  Bats hrrrrnh but me by for the rockstreen?” Dean said, his voice rising as he reached out toward his dad.  His back started arching off the bed in an attempt to rise.  John forced him back down firmly but gently. 

“Don’t do that, Dean.  Stay in bed, son.  Calm down.”  But that only increased the boy’s frustration and fear.  Dean started to panic.

“Naaahhhuhh!  Remur, link is over saying high and high!”  The heart monitor began shrieking out a warning.  One of the ICU nurses immediately swept down on them, eyeing John and Sam with irritation.

She gently restrained the boy while studying the monitor.  “What’s happening here?  He can’t be raising his head for a few more hours yet,” she trumpeted, her aura protective and hostile at the same time.

“Happening?”  John glared at the woman, his eyes polar, his voice glacial and raspy with anger of his own.  “My boy has an aneurysm.  He’s frightened and in pain, and I can’t even tell him everything will be all right because he can’t understand me,” the hunter snarled out.  The nurse deflated and her eyes softened. 

“I understand, Mr. Winchester, but he’s stressing, and he can’t be moving around like this after the angiogram.  He has to remain flat,” she harped in a kind but emphatic tone.  She emptied a vial into Dean’s IV and patted the boy’s chest, pressing her finger to her lips and quietly making the shushing sound until Dean’s eyes lost their luster and became vacant and passive again.

“What the hell did you give him?  He hates being snowed like that,” John said, his voice still barbed.

“I know this is hard on you all,” she whispered. “But we’re going to have to keep him sedated.  We can’t let him get excited at all— _at all_ ; it is absolutely critical.  His blood pressure needs to remain low and steady.  This aneurysm is extremely dangerous, and right now his life depends on him staying calm.”  It was John’s turn to back down a little, and the hunter sighed and nodded, ceding the point.  “It may be better for you to talk as little as possible, since it’s disorienting and upsetting for him,” she advised.  “Just sit with him.  If he talks, simply smile and nod and give him lots of physical contact.”

Sam rested his cheek on Dean’s shoulder and rubbed his chest.  Dean leaned in, almost involuntarily and rested his chin against his brother’s head.

“Sibbin,” Sam whispered, using Dean’s vocabulary.  “Shhhh, shhhh, Sibbin,” he pointed to himself.  “I’m right here, Dean.”  Dean smiled and let the drugs force his eyes closed.

* *

John’s brain was damn near scrambled by the time he made it back to the PICU.  The financial advisor had found him a couple of hours ago, and she’d swept him away to her office, stuffed toys, felt flowers and Hallmark angels overrunning her desk, as she promised to find  ‘creative solutions’ for his financial problems that would adequately fit both his and the hospital’s needs.  She’d loaded him down with so many pamphlets and applications, ranging from the Shriners to the Mormon Church— _surely_ _you are Mormon, aren’t you Mr. Winchester?_ —to governmental health grants, that she wound up having to store everything in a pink, be-flowered folder.  Handing it to him with a dazzling smile, she suggested that he toe through it all when he had the time, and she promised to follow up daily, so that all the I’s were dotted and the T’s were crossed, and, why, if he needed any help—just any help at all—in filling out applications for assistance, she’d be more than happy to oblige.  He thought that he probably should have felt hopelessly inadequate that he couldn’t get his son medical attention any other way without committing outright fraud, but he just didn’t care.  The only thing on his mind was getting Dean through this.  It didn’t matter what he had to do or how many treacly, cloying people he had to endure.  Just the same, by the time he left Little Mary Sunshine’s office he was seeing double from condescension and sugar-shock.  When he finally wandered back into the PICU, Sam was frantic.

“Dad!”  Sam practically yelled, causing the nurses to hush him severely.  Sam lowered his voice.  “He’s better!  Dean…he can talk!  Watch!  Listen!  I was trying to cheer him up by singing and he just—well, he started to sing!”  He dragged John over to Dean. 

“Sing, Dean!  Do it again,” he coaxed.  “Come on!  With me, now.  Like before…”  Sam started singing, and astonishingly enough, Dean, although sloppy with drugs, started singing along, word for word, note for note.  Well, as note for note as Dean ever sang.  Truth to tell, John never did have the heart to tell the kid just how painfully tone-deaf he was, and the drugs weren’t making it any better.  But this was music to his ears.

_Cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good,_  
Now, cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good,  
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move…

The boys sang on and as the last lines wound down, Dr. Michaels entered the ICU and stood, listening. 

_Sorry but I can’t take you.  
Going down, going down now, going down._

John looked from Dean to the doctor.  “Is he…?”  But the doctor immediately shook his head.  He strode over and looked at the groggy boy. 

“Dean, can you understand me?  Squeeze my hand once if you understand,” he said.   The boy looked at the doctor with tired curiosity but never squeezed back. 

“Tube album isn’t for nor?”  He murmured, his eyes spacy, his energy flagging.  “Hand hole flavor candle-bean piracy grow shundur?” Sam looked defeated.  John strode up looking at the doctor. 

“What’s going on?  What’s happening to him?” he asked.

The doctor watched the monitors.  “It’s a very fascinating phenomenon.   Aphasia patients are often able sing or recite.   Your son a big Led Zeppelin fan?”  John nodded.

“Like father, like son,” he said with a hint of a smile. 

Dr. Michaels nodded.  “Dean has those words down cold.  He’s singing them from memory.  A recitation.   Aphasic patients can often do this since memory is stored in more than just one part of the brain.  He’d likely be able to say the Pledge of Allegiance as well.”

“I wouldn’t count on _that_ ,” Sam said.  “Dean’s never been much of a joiner.  I don’t think he could say that before anything happened,” he explained with a naughty smirk.

“Young rebel, eh?” Dr. Michaels smiled.  “Well, anything he has memorized he would probably be able to say with no difficulty.  Original or current thoughts, on the other hand, are likely to be more problematic.”  Sam slumped in the chair, disappointed and scared.

“It’s all right, Sam,” John said.  “They’re going to fix him.”  Sam snorted.

“Yeaaahh…if it’s something the doctors _can_ fix,” he said, giving his father a knowing look.  “What if it’s something else?”  The doctor turned toward Sam. 

“We know what this is, Sam.  We’re going to take good care of him in the morning.”  He said, but Sam continued to regard the doctor skeptically.  The doctor turned to John.  “In the meantime, he’s stable and you two should head home early tonight and get plenty of rest.  It will be a big day for all three of you tomorrow.”

John nodded.  “We’ll be ready,” he said but made no move to leave.  Dr. Michaels could only nod.   He finished his examination and left with the promise that he’d be available if Dean’s condition changed.   

As soon as the doctor left, Sam reached for his brother’s hand and stroked it, turning it over in his own.  He noticed the small puncture wound in Dean’s palm for the first time. 

“What’s this?” he said, lifting the palm for his father to see.  “When did this happen?  Did the skinwalker _bite_ him?”

John looked at the small mark.  “No, the skinwalker didn’t bite him, Sam.  It doesn’t look like anything.  He could have done that anytime.  It’s just a scratch.  It’s nothing.”  Sam wasn’t convinced.  His hands went to his hips and he looked around, speaking to John in a quiet whisper, low enough to keep his brother calm and the nurses from overhearing. 

“None of this seems right, Dad,” he lectured.  “It doesn’t seem _natural_.  What if they can’t help him?  What if we’re only hurting him more by not calling Uncle Bobby?”  John’s jaw clenched as he tried to rein in his frustration. 

“Don’t start with me again, Sam.  I’m done discussing this with you,” the hunter said, but the look of judgment in Sam’s eyes practically gave John freezer-burn.

“He was _fine_ until he went on that hunt,” he hissed out.  “Dad, if anything happens to Dean and we could have done something…” He didn’t get a chance to finish before Dean moaned out.  The hand that Sam was holding began to twitch, and Dean started tapping his index finger and thumb together, making that odd ‘OK’ sign again.  Sam looked at Dean, wondering what his brother was trying to tell him. 

Dean’s face was ticking a little, his eyes vacant, slightly rolled and fluttering, just like they’d done in the car on the way to the hospital, Sam remembered.  His lips were pursed, the lower lip protruding almost like a toddler’s pout. 

“Dean?” Sam called his name.  “You all right, Dean?”  John also bent in, touching his son’s head. 

“Dean?” he called. 

The ICU nurse winged over and watched a moment and then quietly moved in.  “It’s all right,” she said serenely.  She stroked Dean’s cheek with a graceful hand and patted his chest, watching the monitors.  “It’s all right, sweetie,” she soothed. 

“What’s happening to him?” Sam asked, terrified.

“He’s all right.  He’s just having a wee bit of a seizure.  It’ll pass in a minute.” 

They silently watched Dean.  His eyes quivered a bit and wandered the ceiling.  His mouth opened slightly and saliva began running down, and he started to make a rumbling sound in his throat.  The nurse gently turned him on his side a bit, allowing his mouth to empty and his airway to clear.  After minute or so, his face and hands went slack, and he opened and closed his eyes several times before they sparked back to life.  Dean sleepily glanced from Sam to John and then just closed his eyes with a tired sigh.  Sam started to choke back tears.  It was all too much for the little boy.  He hated seeing his hero like this.  He wanted his brother fixed right now.  The nagging worry that this was something that the skinwalker had done was overwhelming him.  His felt his dad put a calming hand on his shoulder, but it didn’t help much.

“There, it’s over,” the nurse whispered.  She ran her fingers through the teen’s sweaty hair.  “I’ll page the doctor and see if he wants us to increase his anticonvulsants.”  She looked at John.  “He should sleep for a while now.  You two should think about getting some rest yourselves.  I know the procedure is set for early tomorrow.  You need to be fresh and rested for Dean,” she said.  John nodded and thanked her.  After she left, Sam turned to his father with a pleading look on his face.  John gave a nudging nod to the large chair by the bed. 

“Settle in, Sport,” he said, taking off his jacket and handing it to the boy.  “Use this as a blanket and your coat as a pillow.”  Sam heaved a sigh of relief and thanks before settling into the chair, never taking his eyes off his brother until he simply couldn’t keep them open any longer. 

When Sam was finally out, John quietly padded over to the side of the bed and stood there for some time.  Finally he spoke.

“Happy Birthday, kiddo,” he whispered.  “I’ll make it up to you.  I swear I will.  But you have to promise me that you’ll get better so that I can, yeah?  You wouldn’t take that chance away from your old man, would you?” he said as he knelt in.  He wanted to say more—a lot more—but he suddenly couldn’t find the breath to do so.  His understanding of English was just fine, but all his words simply balled and clotted in his throat.  Reaching out, he laid the flat of his palm on Dean’s head.  Standing up, he reached back, pulling up the small chair and quietly situated himself, letting his legs stretch out under the bed.  “Promise me, Dean.” 

When John dozed off for a moment he dreamt that his son was running madly from a monster that was chasing him through the forest, while all around him the snow was rising and falling in scoops and peaks like frosting on a birthday cake.  Startled awake, he sat up and remained utterly sleepless until they arrived to take his son downstairs for the delicate procedure.

 

 

 

 

 

**_To Be Continued…_ **

* * *

 

**_ Translations: _ **

“Tender on the center bite!”— **Need a little help here!**

“Sibbin!”— **Sammy!**

“Re—Remur?  Cry pool nor tweak sane shingle?”— **Dad?  Why won’t you speak plain English?**

“But me by no firs big, pensch.”— **Don’t fight you two, please.**

“Sibbin?  Almond nohr keeper?”— **Sammy?  Are you OK?**

“Remur, bats mown—mown—mown over?  Bats hrrrrnh but me by for the rockstreen?”— **Dad, what’s going on?  What’s wrong with me?**

“Naaahhhuhh!  Remur, link is over saying high and high!”— **Naaahhhuhh!  Dad, let me up!**

“Tube album isn’t for nor?”— **Who are you?**

“Hand hole flavor candle-bean piracy grow shundur?”— **When can I go home?**


	3. May My Tongue Sing the Word

 

Dean had always been told that life was short, and while he supposed that may be true, it did nothing to make the time now move any quicker.  Sounds of differing shapes and colors droned endlessly around him, blips and beeps—even Sammy’s stuffy snores somewhere not far off to his right—combined into a soft din that made complete oblivion impossible.  He’d almost grown accustomed to the few distinct voices that had been swirling around him in a hushed but ceaseless babble.  Even if he couldn’t latch onto what was being said, he’d at least known the unmistakable sound of his father’s and brother’s voices, and that had somewhat helped to keep his feet beneath him.  At some point, however, the noise grew more earnest, and Dean became aware that several strangers had invaded his personal space as they quietly fussed, whispered, and bumped into things.  He tried to filter through the murmuring, listening for his dad or brother, but he couldn’t hear them, and it was hard not to feel uprooted and overturned with this dull chatter spilling into his darkness.  The new voices were no more relatable than the old, and no one seemed to care enough to tell him what was going on or what was wrong with him.  It had to be significant for all the attention he’d apparently aroused, though.  He searched his memory to try and tack down what had happened. 

He’d been hunting with his dad, but he was certain that the skinwalkers had gone down quickly.  The exhilaration of his first kill and his dad’s subdued respect was as fresh and crisp as it had been on that night.  However, his memory of events after that was broken and vague.  He released a small moan of frustration as he tried to stretch a little.  His back hurt, but that was just the ache of having lain in one position for hours.  Surely he wasn’t the center of all this activity over a little backache. 

When he felt the bed shudder, he cracked his lids and watched as the strangers unhooked him from a couple of machines and tucked in his covers.  They began moving the bed with him on it between two large double doors.  His anxiety spiked.

“Dad?  Sammy?” he scraped out.  He wanted to stop whatever was happening, but he had absolutely no energy whatsoever, and it was too hard to keep his eyes opened for more than a few seconds at a time. 

He suddenly saw his dad push one of the strangers out of the way and lean in, locking eyes with him.  The man looked haunted and worn.  Judging from the dark circles under his eyes, Dean figured his dad hadn’t slept in a couple of days.  He looked sober, to boot.  That sure as hell wasn’t a good sign.  His dad drank when things were crappy—and things were almost _always_ crappy—but the man never touched a drop when things were dire.  Dean felt a hand on his arm and languidly turned toward it.  Sam was also there, looking moist-eyed and bleary.  The little doofus had one of the worst cases of bed-head he’d ever seen, and under normal circumstances Dean would have loved nothing better than to draw as much attention to his brother’s pointy _faux-hawk_ as he could.  Right now, though, he couldn’t even turn his head easily let alone point and laugh.  He tried to assess the situation and consider his options, but his thoughts stretched and rippled like moonlight on running water.  It was so hard to hold onto anything or to concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time.  Whatever shit they’d given him, it seriously had one hell of a kick. 

The entourage began to move through the halls and down an elevator.  John and Sam were right there with him, filling his line of sight, smiling bravely.  Just the same, Dean could see real fear in their eyes.  Some serious shit was about to go down.  He dug deep to find his voice.

“Don’t worry about me, shrimp.  I’ll be OK,” he weakly offered a frightened Sam.  The young boy patted his arm and nodded. 

“Isn’t on your flying by.  Shame for line on your you.”  Sam jabbered nonsensically through a casual façade.  The kid couldn’t possibly be any more transparent.  Whatever bullshit Sam was yammering, it didn’t hide the fact that the boy looked like he was about to piss himself.  And didn’t that just take all the fun out of Sam’s silly bedhead?  How could Dean really enjoy it after seeing such sharp worry and dread in those big, hazel eyes?

Hell, he was more concerned about the doctors fixing his dad and brother at this point.  They needed more comfort and help than he did.  Yet, he couldn’t deny that _something_ was wrong with him, he knew that much.  He was the one lying on a bed like a ragdoll, after all.  As his thoughts Ferris-wheeled, so did the dim lights above the corridor he was floating down, and his eyes fell shut on their own despite his growing sense of impending doom.

He forced his eyes open when the bed stopped, and both John and Sam bent in close, babbling quietly and petting him.  His dad gave him a shaky smile that said more than Dean could ever process or digest in one sitting, drugged or not.  And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, the man followed up with a dewy wink and a thumbs up, like he was a coach about to send Dean out onto a goddamned football field or something. 

“I don’t know if I can win one for the Gipper, Dad,” he joked, employing his usual foxhole bravado.  “But yer kinda creeping me out, here.”  His dad continued with that quivering smile and kept pumping that freaky thumb up and down in the air.  The old man was about as subtle as a two-by-four to the head.  God, he must be so screwed. 

Sam bent in and started bobbing his bedhead at him.  Dean tried to reach out and flatten the lumpy hump of hair, but his hand wouldn’t move. 

“Put a hat on, doofus,” he grinned weakly.  “You’re gonna poke someone’s eye out with that thing.”  And, oh god, there it was again.  A thumbs-up from Sam, too.  Another electric-pink neon sign.  This was so not good. 

He wasn’t aware that his dad had walked around to Sam’s side of the bed until he was hoisting his brother up and in for a… _Oh sweet Jesus…NO!_   And there it was.  Right on his damn lips, no less.  Moist and warm and so, so, so, _so_ not good.  That’s it.  He must be dying. 

The bed started moving through the large doorway without John or Sam following, and he started to lose it a little.   He tried to get the people pushing the bed to stop, tried to talk them out of whatever they were planning, but they just smiled and nodded condescendingly.  His dad and brother were gone and their absence was such a loud loss.  Without the presence of his family, Dean began to suffocate.  He gobbled as much air as he could, but nothing helped to release the pressure in his chest.  It flattened him onto the gurney. 

They entered a small room where a nurse dressed in green surgical scrubs met them.  She was wearing a crape-like shower-cap covering her hair and a mask over her mouth.  Approaching him, she rubbed his shoulder and spoke quiet nonsense to him, but Dean didn’t even try to listen.

“I want my dad and brother.  Please go get them for me.  Please?” Dean begged.  He rocked and quivered in an attempt to launch himself up and away, but his body wasn’t having it.  It was like trying to fight a dragon with spitballs.  The nurse didn’t say anything; her eyes crinkled into a smile as she reached up and put a bonnet-thing on him, too.  _Oh god!  Oh god!_   If that wasn’t enough, she then went to the side of the bed, pulled the covers down to his thighs, exposing him completely.  Without a word, she spread his legs and began shaving around his groin. 

“Don’t!” he cried out.  He was mortified and humiliated.  His breaths started coming in wild, shallow gulps, and he began to shiver violently.  “Why are you doing this?  I want to talk to my dad.  Please…just for a minute.  Please!”  There was nowhere for the explosive panic to go, no purge available to him, no release offered other than his weak struggles as he jounced and wobbled under her razor.  “Please don’t.  Go get my dad…”  His voice cracked and his eyes watered helplessly as he pled with all his might for the nurse to listen to him.  “I need my dad…”  She stopped and came up close, pressing a cool, latex palm to his forehead.  Her eyes were soft and sympathetic as she wiped away one of his tears that had dripped toward his ear.

“Shhhh…shhhh,” she offered in comfort.  Looking up, she nodded to another scrub-covered doctor or nurse with thick eyeglasses.

“Many next on the over stonikh bring asperray in for.  Lap extra tree be my on the silk,” she said to her co-worker.  The one with the glasses readied a syringe and pressed it into his IV port.  The nurse continued to gently caress his head as the room bubbled and bled around him, and his awareness took a rapid nose-dive.  Things became very sketchy after that.  He had a vague sense of being moved one more time to a larger room and being transferred to a very stiff table.  A piercing flood-lamp was in his eyes and a soft mask was pressed over his face before he could even think to protest.  That’s when the sharp light fragmented into a dazzling starburst and the world ceased.

* *

“Dad?”

John stared at the closed door, listening to the sound of his son’s drugged, garbled protests and the slight squeak of the wheels as the bed retreated down the locked corridor. 

“Dad?”

There was a sudden pain in his temples from having clenched his jaw for too long.  John blinked a couple of times as his surroundings coalesced, and he stopped trying to listen for the voice that was now far beyond his hearing. 

“Hey, Dad…?”

John twitched and glanced at Sam as though seeing him for the first time.  The boy was a hot mess of rumples, wrinkles and puffy, bloodshot eyes; he even had indentations on his cheek from the seams of the leather jacket he’d slept against. 

The elder hunter looked the child up and down.  “Good lord, kiddo, we need to do something about that mop,” he tutted with a humorless grin, licking his fingers and trying to tame the rogue tuft of hair that had pillared several inches above the boy’s head.  Sam’s shoulders dipped and he turned to the door.

“I miss him, Dad,” Sam said.  “I want him back.  Really back.”

“Me too,” John agreed as he ruffled the hairs that would not be toppled by saliva alone.  “Come on, _Shaft_.  Let’s hit the head and get cleaned up a little.  We both look like hell.” 

After taking spit-baths in the restroom, John bought some orange juice and sugary donuts from a vending machine for Sam and a coffee for himself.  “We’ll get some real food later, bud.  Eat up,” he said.  Sam looked at the donuts with disgust.  Holding the package in front of him like it was the tail of a dead rat, he flung it onto an empty seat in the waiting room and sat in the next chair.

“Disgusting,” he said, with a repulsed swallow.

John sighed.  Sam was the only kid he knew that would make a pickle-face at donuts.  Dean would have devoured the package as though it was filet mignon, and John’s heart dropped at the thought.  God, he wanted his kid back— _really back_ , like Sam said.  He wanted his loud-mouthed, loud-laughing, loud-loving child back.  Seventy percent chance that he’d recover completely.  That was doable.  Hell, the Winchesters beat worse odds on a daily basis.  These doctors didn’t know his kid.  He was stronger than any of them could possibly conceive.

John couldn’t help but smile remembering Dean as a four-year old toddler, all red and sticky from a popsicle he’d just eaten, running to him, clutching a five-leaf clover he’d found in the yard.  _Lucky!_ Dean had announced.  When John had knelt down and told his son that only four-leaf clovers were considered lucky, the boy studied the clover, counted slowly, and had simply plucked off the offending leaf.  _Lucky!_ he’d insisted with a cheeky smile and a squawk of triumph, waving the clover about proudly.  John had pressed that clover in a book and still had the damned thing tucked away in a storage locker in New York.  Dean didn’t need luck.  He’d make his own.  Seventy percent chance for the average person, sure, but this was _Dean_.  Dean would make up the other thirty percent easily.  It was as good as done, he convinced himself. 

Both he and Sam sat without moving or speaking for quite some time.  After a while, John stretched and cracked his knuckles.  Eyeing the donuts, he grabbed them and wrestled the package open.  The powdered sugar dusted his beard-stubble and snowed down onto his t-shirt as he shoved one in his mouth.  The stale cake crumbled and clotted in his dry throat.  He looked at Sam and tossed the package back onto the seat.

“Disgusting,” he admitted.  His son snorted his agreement and leaned against his father, settling in for the long wait.

* *

John’s heart skipped a beat when the doctor entered the waiting room not even two hours later, but the man’s easy gait and casual approach gave John a hot pang of hope.  Still, as he and Sam stood, the hunter unconsciously pulled the child close.  Dr. Michaels was smiling. 

“Everything went very well.  Dean’s doing just fine,” he said.  John could feel the tension melt from Sam, and the boy let out a small gasp of relief which he tried to turn into a cough.  Before John could say anything, Sam looked up at the doctor.

“Will he be able to talk normal?” the boy asked. 

Dr. Michaels smiled.  “We don’t know that yet,” he said.  “The pressure has only just released, so it is going to take a little while for his brain to recover from that.  Like I said earlier, don’t worry too much about that right off the bat.  His language skills should start coming back gradually over the next few weeks.  We’ll have a therapist work with him to help stimulate those areas of the brain.  Right now, though, he’s heavily sedated and will remain that way for a while.  We had to go through his femoral artery again like we did with the angiogram, so he is going to have to lay flat on his back and be very still for at least eight hours.  Due to the aphasia we have to keep him asleep this time, because he will not understand how important it is to remain flat.  We’ll wake him up this evening, and we can assess him more fully then.”

“What’s the long-term prognosis?  Once we get through this, is he going to be OK?”  John asked.

“We need to watch him closely for a while.  Dean’s aneurysm was very large, and you cannot fill the entire space with the coil, because that would not reduce the size or the pressure.  So we had to displace the blood and hope that the aneurysm will contract around the much smaller coil that has been put in place without any blood seeping back in.  He’ll be in the PICU for the next forty-eight hours or so.  If there is no rupture or bleeding, we’ll move him to a regular room.  He’ll have to stay here for seven to ten days to make sure there are no further complications.  Before he leaves we’ll do another angiogram and a round of CT scans to make sure everything has remained where we placed it and that no blood has seeped back into the sac.  After that, I recommend that he have follow-up scans every six months or so for the next few years to make sure he’s still in the clear.”

John nodded.  “Will there be any other limitations?  He’s a very active kid.  Can he do…um…sports and whatnot?  He does a lot of training.”

The doctor laughed.  “I know they’re hard to keep down.  But he should be fine.  I’d have him take it easy for a while.  He’s young, and if he’s anything like my boy, he’ll probably push his limits.  Try and have him start with some low cardio and keep his pace moderate for a month or two.  In the long term, though, he should be free to do as much activity as he pleases.  There really isn’t anything he could have done to prevent this.  The problem was due to an anomaly in the structural wall of the artery.  It’s a matter of genetics, mostly, so you might also want to get both you and Sam checked out now and again, as well.”

“I’ll see to it,” John said. 

“Good,” Dr. Michaels said.  “Now, why don’t you two go get some real breakfast,” he laughed looking at the crumbled donuts.  “Dean will be out of Recovery in about an hour.  Get some food and then go see him for a while.  Like I said, he’ll be out of it in order to keep him from moving.  Check on him, and then I suggest you both go home and get a real nap; you both look like you could use it.  We’ll call you if anything changes, and this way you can be rested for when we wake Dean up after dinner.  OK?”

Dr. Michaels shook both their hands and left, whistling briskly.  It was a good day for him, but for father and son, it was the best they’d ever known.  John gave Sam’s shoulders a squeeze and looked down at his beaming son. 

“How’s that for news?” John said.  “Still think it’s the skinwalker?”

Sam clouded a little.  “We don’t know that it wasn’t, Dad.  Maybe the doctor was able to fix what the skinwalker did.”  John shook his head. 

“Sometimes bad things just happen, Sam.”  The boy shrugged, still not entirely convinced.  But since Dean was going to be OK, neither of them wanted to argue the point.  “Come on,” John said, snatching up their jackets.  “Let’s go grab some lunch and then go see Dean.  You hungry?”

Sam nodded and laughed weakly.  “Actually, I’m starving.”

* *

Sam’s eyes staggered open when his dad tapped him lightly.  Looking at the clock, he couldn’t believe he had slept nearly five hours.  They’d waited at the hospital until they could finally see Dean, but his brother had been completely out—dead to the world—lying flat on his back with no pillow again.  The nurses were firm about not letting them stay long.  They didn’t want Dean awakened or bothered at all.  Sam hated waiting.  He was anxious to know if Dean was normal again or not.  Not that Dean wasn’t normal, but…still…the aphasia made Dean sound so weird.  Sam didn’t like it.  It scared him.  On the other hand, he had to admit that when he’d seen Dean asleep in the bed, his brother had looked surprisingly good—a lot better than he’d looked last summer after the poltergeist had finished with him.  There were no bruises, no blood, no stitches or casts.  His head hadn’t even been shaved as Sam had feared.  He couldn’t quite wrap his own brain around how they had fixed his head by going through his leg; that seemed so nutty.

The first thing he’d done when he saw Dean was to check his brother’s hand.  The bite, or whatever it was, seemed to be healing.  It had a small reddish-black scab on it, but the wound didn’t seem enflamed in the slightest.  Maybe the skinwalker truly had nothing to do with this whole mess.  That was a comfort, but he’d feel a lot better about everything once Dean was awake and talking again—for real talking.  Everyone said it might take some time, and he would try to be as patient as he could.  Still, if Dean didn’t improve like the doctors promised he would, Sam had every intention of calling his Uncle Bobby, no matter what his father said. 

“Up and at ‘em, kiddo,” John said.  His dad still looked exhausted with big circles around his eyes, but he said he’d gotten a short nap and a shower, so Sam let the matter be.  Both wanted to get back to the hospital as soon as possible, so they wasted no time getting themselves out the door. 

Sophia, the evening nurse who had scolded them yesterday for getting Dean riled up, was on duty again when they entered.  She didn’t look cranky today, though.  In fact, her smile was radiant when they walked in. 

“Well, you both look better,” she beamed at the pair of them. 

“How’s Dean?” John and Sam asked in unison. 

Sophia met them by the bed.  “He’s doing great.  All his vitals are good.  Dr. Michaels was in about a half hour ago and gave the go-ahead to stop the sedative.  He’ll wake up in an hour or two.”

“Two more hours?” Sam looked bitterly disappointed.  He sat down with a huff and rested his chin in his hands.

“It’s going to be OK, Sam,” John said.  Sam didn’t move his head, but his eyes looked up anxiously at his father.  “He’s doing well, champ.”  Sam’s eyes fell onto his brother.

“He looks like he’s tired of sleeping,” he assessed glumly. 

John smiled.  “Yeah, I don’t doubt that for a moment.  He’ll be bouncing off the walls in no time.  You’ll see.”

* *

There was no bouncing when Dean finally stirred, though.  His first return to consciousness was nothing beyond a deep breath and pained wince against a body that had been in one position for far too long.  It was enough to propel Sam to action, though.  The boy was immediately up, patting Dean’s hand as he tried to coax his big brother out from under the sedative. 

“It’s me and Dad, Dean.  We’re here.  Can you hear me?  Can you understand?  Dean?” he said in one breath.  Dean opened his eyes for one glassy, disoriented second before closing them again. “Dean?” Sam called again as he shook Dean’s shoulder lightly, but the teen was unresponsive.

“Don’t be so rough, Sam.  Give him a moment,” John coached.  The elder hunter bent in and stroked his son’s jaw with his thumb for a moment before speaking in an uncharacteristically gentle voice.  “Hey Sport, wanna open your eyes for us?”  John’s breath caught when Dean’s brows arched and his forehead crinkled with the effort to seemingly do as his father asked.  “I know you can do better than that, Dean,” he said with continued tenderness.  He took his son’s hand in his own.  “On three, now.  One…” Dean eyelashes fluttered in response.  “Two…c’mon Dean…”  The boy’s breathing quickened a little and he winced in pain again.  “Breathe through the pain, son.  Three.  Open your eyes, Dean.”  The last was a command, and whether Dean could or couldn’t understand the words, there would be no mistaking that tone.  Dean’s eyes opened obediently, big and wide and dazed.  “Hey son.  You with us?”

“Dean!” Sam said too loudly, making his brother flinch.  Dean’s eyes rolled in an uncoordinated, lurching search to pin down the offending noise. 

Dean tried to lift his head off the bed, but John held him down.  “Nuuhhh!”  Dean protested, his back arching off the bed, his face telling his fear and pain. 

“It’s OK, son.  Stand down.  You’re fine.”  The boy relaxed, but distress and confusion still lined his brow.  John tightened his grip on Dean’s hand.  “If you can understand me, I want you to squeeze my hand, Dean.”  The young hunter closed his eyes and sunk into the bed, defeated by the drugs and gentle hands pressing him down.  “Dean, squeeze my hand if you can understand me.”   A wave of adrenaline and emotion shot through John’s body when he felt his boy’s hand grip his own and squeeze on cue.  John’s jaw quivered and he clasped the hand with wild, greedy love.  Sam looked at his father.

“Did he…?” Sam asked, not quite able to read his dad’s overwhelmed expression.  John nodded, his eyes watering. 

“He’s with us,” he said.  He turned back to Dean.  “Good job, son.  At ease, now.  Rest up, you hear me?”

Dean didn’t open his eyes again.  His dry tongue attempted to lick even drier lips, and he squinched his eyes in discomfort, arching his back off of the bed with a groan.  “Mmuuhgh!  Am on the fork, but the sideways can lip sugar.  Back.  Back…with the fire.  Move!”

“Dad?” Sam cried out, discouraged and frightened by Dean’s continued aphasia.  John immediately pressed a finger to his lips and glared his younger son into silence.

“What is it, Dean?” John asked.  “Where do you hurt?”

“On the sideways,” he insisted, his back arching again.  “Back on the move.”

Sam looked crushed.  “If he can understand us, why is he still talking like that, Dad?  Why?”

“Shhh!” John snapped again.  He turned back to Dean.  “What are you trying to say, son?”

Sam thought over the words Dean said and leant in.  “Is it your back, Dean?  Does your back hurt?”  Dean nodded.   

Just then Sophia flitted over.  “He’s waking up?” she asked as she quickly examined her patient. 

“My boy’s in pain,” John said with a demanding edge to the words. 

Sophia checked all of the equipment and assessed Dean’s status, asking him questions and getting him to grip her hand when prompted.  Dean seemed a little less amiable and cooperative with the strange voice, but he offered enough for the nurse’s satisfaction.

“Wow,” she exclaimed jubilantly.  “He’s doing amazingly well.  I’m surprised.” 

Dean opened his eyes and there was even a spark of snark in them.  “Seeing you in the me over in over by the black man.  Dying back move,” he mumbled. 

“Well, he’s still verbally aphasic.”  She looked at John.  “But he seems to be reconnecting aurally.  He’s responding to commands.  That’s much better than I would have thought at this point.  He’s getting there; aren’t you Dean?”  Dean huffed out in annoyance and tried to sit up again.  Both Sophia and John pressed him back down.

“He’s saying that his back hurts.  He’s been lying on it forever.  Can we let him turn on his side or something?”  Sam asked impatiently.  Dean gave his brother a tired but grateful look. 

“Sure,” Sophia said.  “It’s safe to raise the bed a little and let him turn over.”  She adjusted the bed and helped Dean get into a comfortable position on his side.  He was facing Sam, studying his younger brother’s face as the nurse wedged some pillows behind him to take the pressure off his back. 

“You’re gonna be fine, Dean.  You had an aneurysm,” Sam informed his brother.  “That’s a thing in your brain that can bleed if they don’t shove wires into it.  You’re, like, _Bionic_ now or something!” he hooted quietly.  Dean gave him half a sleepy smirk.  “You were having seizures.  Dude, it was so freaky.  But you’re cool now.  All fixed up.  You still talk a little funny, but that’s just something called aphasia.  It’s going to go away, so don’t worry, OK?”  Dean seemed to mull that over and opened his mouth, but Sam was ahead of him.  “It’s only been a couple of days.  See?  Not that long.  You’re so awesome that you beat this thing quicker than anyone else.  They made you sleep all day so that you wouldn’t get up and bleed to death.  They totally cut your leg to fix your brain.  Isn’t that weird?”

Dean quirked a drowsy grin and touched a finger to Sam’s nose.  “Following isn’t on you cliff, Sammy.” 

Sam’s mouth fell open.  “That’s right!  That’s my name, Dean!  You said that right.”  Sam looked at his dad.  “Did you hear that?”

John came around to Sam’s side of the bed.  “Hey son, you know my name?”

Dean nodded.  “Sammy’s dad,” he said, but his eyes were starting to sag as sleep closed in on him.

“That’s right, Dean.  I am Sammy’s dad.  But I’m your dad, too.”  John softly chuckled.  Dean nodded, his body relaxing, fingers curling as sleep claimed him.  Sam checked the wound on his brother’s hand just to be sure nothing had changed since he’d looked at it after the surgery.  Nothing had.  His examination was interrupted when Dean spoke again.

“Dean’s dad,” he murmured and twitched a finger toward himself.  “I’m a Dean.”

“Yes you are, son,” John said.

“You’re the best Dean in the whole freakin’ world,” Sam agreed. 

* *

“Don’t be like that, Dean,” Angie said.  The speech therapist put a calming hand on her frustrated patient’s arm.  “You’re doing so well.  This isn’t a test you can fail.  Now, let’s try again.”

Dean was sick and tired of this whole crapfest.  He was tired of the hospital, tired of therapy, and tired of sounding like ‘crazy Aunt Martha’ every time he opened his mouth.  OK, not that he had a crazy Aunt Martha, but if he did…this would surely be how the old loon would speak.  He was trying to listen to what Angie told him to do, trying to concentrate on the sounds she made, but judging from her body language, he clearly wasn’t getting it right.  She made him nervous.  He didn’t want to talk like a freak in front of the hot chick.

“Dean,” she tried to console him.  “It’s only been a few days.  You have to be patient.  Trust me when I tell you that you are improving faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.  Nobody thought you’d be this far along for weeks yet.  My goodness, your comprehension and speech have improved tremendously in just the past twenty-four hours alone.  Now,” she said, giving him a rather saucy look that Dean couldn’t help but find distracting despite his soured mood. 

His eyes wandered over Angie’s young curves, lingering on her perfectly rounded breasts—the only thing lacking was a big, purple USDA stamp of awesomeness on those tasty beauts.  Just one strategically timed stumble and he’d be heading for the Promised Land.  No wonder he couldn’t concentrate.  Angie was definitely _his kind_ of speech therapist.  He tried to follow the cadence of her voice, but he was more or less a goner at this point.  _Get a grip, dude!_ he chided himself.  But, hell, he was a healthy kid, or, you know, a healing kid, and with those melons as big and luscious and ripe and her smelling like shampoo and lemons and… _crap_ …was she waiting for an answer to something?  Dean looked from her luscious melons to her ethereal, moon-shaped face.

“Speak more and more?” he asked with a guilty shrug.  Angie filled her cheeks with air and blew out, her lips vibrating and tsking as Dean’s face blossomed into an unrepentant, lascivious grin.  His eyes wandered back down.  She immediately crossed her arms over the distraction, her elbows sticking out like pinions. 

“I said, ‘now keep your eyes on the assignment, Casanova!’” she flapped.  “Come on.  Let’s try again.”  The young woman couldn’t help but smile.  She waited a beat and cocked her head toward the tray.  Dean sighed and sat up straighter, trying to give his attention to the task. 

He studied the assortment, but he was unsure and confused.  “Don’t remember on it.  What will you do?” he confessed.   

“Put the pencil in the cup.”  Angie patiently instructed him again.  Dean reached for the pencil and held it, thinking the command through.  He looked over the other items, a book, a brush, a fork, a key and a cup.  He touched the cup, looking for a tell from Angie, but she was stubbornly unreadable.

He scratched his head.  “Say, say?” he asked.

“Put the pencil in the cup,” she repeated herself, slower this time. 

Dean sighed.  General comprehension was getting easier, but following and carrying out detailed commands was still not unlike trying to ride a skateboard over gravel.  The words became cumbersome and clunky and he had difficulty nailing them down exactly.  He turned the cup over, topside down, and set the pencil on top of the cup.  Dean bit his lower lip and looked up at Angie expectantly.

“That’s good, Dean, you got the names right.  This is a pencil,” she touched the object.  “And this is a cup.”  Dean smiled triumphantly.  “But I want you to put the pencil _in_ the cup.  Can you do that for me?” 

The teen was taken aback for a moment and looked at the pencil and cup, trying to figure out what he’d missed.  It suddenly dawned on him and he turned the cup over and put the pencil inside. 

“That’s right.  Very good,” Angie praised him.  She held the pencil up in front of him.  “Can you say _pencil_?”

“Strobe,” he said.  

Angie held up the cup, “And _cup_?”

“Cup,” Dean answered.  Angie nodded.

“That’s right,” she beamed.  “You got the cup right.”  She placed the spoon and cup back into the lineup.  “Let’s try one more…” she began, but Sam and John bustled through the door.

“Dean!” Sam’s backpack was slung across his shoulders.  John had forced Sam to return to school that day for the first time since Dean got sick.  He tossed the pack into the empty chair and came to inspect what Dean and Angie were working on. 

Dean’s smile was bright and genuine.  “Heya Sammy,” he greeted.  “Cup!” he said holding it high with pride.

“That’s awesome, Dean,” Sam cheered.  “You’re a rock star!”  He pointed to the brush.  “What’s that?”

Dean picked it up and fidgeted the bristles between his fingers.  “A…boob?” he said with a hopeful smile.  Everyone looked at him startled, their mouths hanging open.  He looked at them innocently.  “What?” he shrugged. 

“Better put that one aside and try again in a couple of days, Ace,” John laughed.

Sam struggled against his own guffaw.  “He’s got boobs on the brain again.  He’s almost back to normal, all right.”  Dean just scratched his head, looking perplexed. 

“Why in my boob brain for mean, Sammy?”  Dean looked to John for backup when Sammy began shaking with suppressed laughter.  “Sammy’s dad?  What for it funny?”  He waved the brush in the air.  “It’s hair on my boob, hello?”  He pantomimed brushing his hair. 

Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer.  He threw his arms around Dean and laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes.  Even Angie started to giggle. 

“All right,” she said, reaching out to gather her things.  “I think that’s enough for today.   We’ll pick this back up tomorrow afternoon, OK, Dean?”  Dean put his hands over the items. 

“Keep?  Please?  As for what we work again and again, in the tomorrow.  Me and Sammy work with beans?” he asked.

“You want to keep them so you and Sam can keep working with them?” she confirmed.   Dean nodded.

“Please?”

“Sure thing,” she said.  “You can work on it as much as you like.  Just make sure you get rest, too, OK?”

“OK,” Dean promised.  Angie smiled and rose. 

John followed her out into the hall.  “How’s he doing?” he asked away from the boys’ ears.

“Oh Mr. Winchester, he is doing extremely well,” she said with an almost reverent awe.  “Sincerely.  His brain is still recovering, but quite honestly, I haven’t seen many people make the kind of leaps he’s made in the past few days.  We’re all just blown away.  He’s a remarkable boy.”  Her voice lowered a little.  “He does frustrate easily, though.  I don’t think he understands how well he’s doing or how far he’s come—or how badly this could have gone.  He expects perfection immediately.”  John snorted at that and nodded.

“That’s Dean, though.  He’s like that with everything, well, except maybe school,” he said with a quiet laugh.  “He’s a doer, always wants to be on the move.  Everything he tries to accomplish comes easy for him.  I don’t think _he_ realizes what a struggle it is for the rest of us.”  John looked the woman in the eyes.  “He’s magnificent.  And he has no clue.  No clue at all.”

Angie nodded.  “Well, remind him from time to time as he heals from this.  He dodged a bullet, and taking a few weeks to get his voice back is an extremely small price to pay.  I’ve worked with many people whose aneurysms ruptured.  Of those who are lucky enough to survive at all, the journey back is usually long and arduous and, more often than not, heartbreaking—their victories are often Pyrrhic at best.”  She looked back at the boys lightly wrestling with the TV remote, Sam on the bed next to Dean as they good naturedly fought over the channel.  “He must have someone up on high watching over him,” she said. 

John nodded, looking at his boys.  He knew that a horrific nightmare had been averted.  “Maybe he does,” he admitted softly.

* *

Dean had most of the staff wrapped around his charming little finger.  They’d cater to his every whim, fetching him sandwiches from the cafeteria specially made to order: mayo on both slices of bread, just a dab of mustard, extra onions with a few potato chips thrown on top for crunch instead of lettuce.  They’d plump his pillows, and when the boy stretched like a cat and asked for a massage, Nan or Layla would fly off to ease the boy’s aching back.  Muriel, the stocky, menopausal tyrant that ruled the Pediatrics ward, didn’t think either girl was particularly skilled, both being fresh out of nursing school, but the boy seemed enraptured by their ministrations.  She was certain that youth and shapely physiques made up for clumsy hands.  Muriel was also dubious as to whether the boy’s back was necessarily all that sore to begin with, especially given his screwball antics the last couple of days while his brother was at school and his father was at work.

The nurses had to dodge his hourly wheelchair races up and down the hall.  Then, when he tired of that recklessness, he’d make one of them time how long he could hold the wheelchair in a wheelie while tracing a large figure-eight pattern in front of the nurse’s station.  The more he ruffled Muriel’s feathers, the more Dean seemed to relish the game.  _You love me, Muriel!_ _You know you do! Come on, you feisty vixen.  Time me!_   He’d laugh as the jowl-faced nurse would glare at him and then sigh, turning her plump wrist to watch the time for him.  It wasn’t lost on her how his aphasia seemed less pronounced whenever he was pouring on the charm, trying to get her to break the rules for him.  Not that it worked on her—not often, anyway.   OK, she may have raided the vending machine for the candy bars he claimed were necessary to help tide him over between meals, and she may have let him persuade her to enable HBO and Showtime on his TV without noting it in his billing paperwork, because no charity would approve something like that.  Of course, she’d adamantly shaken her head at first, her leathery lips pursed in steadfast refusal, but the kid had leaned against her station with such a sad face when she’d denied him.    _Aw,_ c _’mon Muriel, don’t be a Puritan, now!  I’m so bored!  Is that good for an aneurysm?  Well, maybe I could just do the wheelie thing for a while instead._   What was she supposed to do with something like that?  Other than those small lapses, though, the woman was proud that she hadn’t fallen for that beautiful face or his ridiculous shenanigans.  Let those young nurses pander and coddle.  Let them be manipulated by this shameless, teen _Don Juan_.  She was immune. She really was.

Of course she still cared for him as a patient.  She was a devout nurse, after all—had been for over thirty-five years.  Each day that passed improved the boy’s chances of a complete recovery, and everyone who got to know the scoundrel breathed a little easier the longer he went without a bleed or rupture.  He’d been incredibly fortunate.  Dr. Michaels had checked in every day, and the old nurse could hear the normally humorless doctor laughing and joking with his patient.  Incredible.  Even _Dr. Deadpan_ himself was putty in that boy’s hands.  She was embarrassed for him.  The physician had ordered one last angiogram first thing tomorrow morning, and if everything looked good the kid would be out of her hair by dinnertime.  _Good riddance!_ Muriel thought as she pulled a pencil from her tight hair-knot and began fastidiously checking charts.  He was a nuisance and an insufferable flirt, and she wouldn’t be sorry to see him go—not much, anyway.  She looked up to see Dean’s younger brother enter the room a bit later than usual.  He and his father had been coming like clockwork every day at 4:00pm and staying until they were finally kicked out an hour past official visiting hours.  Muriel glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost 5:00pm.  She couldn’t help but smile when she heard Dean give the little fella hell for it, too.  The nurse shook her head at herself.  She wasn’t going soft.  She really wasn’t. 

* *

“Where the hell have you guys been?  Where’s Dad?” Dean bristled when Sam sped through the door. 

“Parking the car.  Dad got off late from work, and then we stopped and got you dinner,” Sam said. 

“Forge?   You brought me real forge?” Dean perked up, his grudge instantly forgiven and forgotten. 

“ _Food_ , Dean,” Sam said.  “We brought you food.  Dad’s bringing it in.” 

Dean tapped his head.  “Yeah, yeah.  Whatever.  Give a guy a break.  Recovering from brain sugary, dude.”

“ _Surgery_ ” Sam laughed.  “It’s cool man.  You’re almost back to normal.  Ninety-eight percent and counting.”  Sam looked around.  “One more night in this place.  Ready to come home?”

“Oh man, I can’t wait,” Dean said.  Sam rooted around in a bag he brought and tossed his brother the Black Sabbath t-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants that he’d asked for.   Dean effortlessly snatched the items out of the air.  “Hallelujah,” he said.  “If I have to stay one more night, I’m going to be comfortable, dammit.”  He got up and began shucking off the paper-thin hospital PJ’s he’d been wearing.  “I’m gonna miss Angie and the twins, though,” he said with a misty sigh through the shirt as he pulled it over his head. 

“Twins?” Sam asked.  “Nan and Layla?”

“No, you little geek,” Dean said, his eyebrows dancing.   “Angie and the _twins_.”  He cupped his hands to his chest, his meaning unmistakable. “Best speech therapist in the world, dude.  She almost makes me want to fake it for a while.”  Dean’s face went dreamy and wistful.  He finally shook himself free.  “But, hey, I’d rather ditch this place and go to bed.” 

“And go _home_ ,” Sam corrected.

“That’s what I said, dork.”

“Uh huh,” Sam nodded.  “But then you’ll have to go back to school.”

“Whoa, hey now,” Dean said as he pulled on the sweats and adjusted them with a shimmy and a couple of hops.  “Don’t get crazy just yet.  I’m still fragile and feverish.”  He coughed feebly and patted his chest.  “It could take a while before I’m good enough for school.”

“Right,” Sam scoffed.  “You keep telling yourself that, smartass.”

“Watch your mouth, Sam,” John said from the open doorway.  The youngster snapped to attention, looking a little guilty.

“Sorry Sir,” he said.  “Dean started it, though.”  Sam gave his brother a mischievous smirk. 

Dean huffed.  “Don’t listen to him, Dad.  I’m an innocent little angel.”

“Sure you are,” John rolled his eyes.  He shook the fast-food bag in his hand.  “Brought you this.  Think fast,” he said tossing it over to Dean.  It surprised all three of them when Dean flung out his right arm sloppily and missed the bag by more than a dozen inches.  It ricocheted off Dean’s chest and tumbled to the floor, french-fries scattering like pick-up sticks. 

“Oh god, Dean.  I’m sorry,” John said, turning his stunned eyes from the bag to his son, who was still standing there blinking.

Dean looked down, staring at the mess.  “I don’t…”   He stood, shaking his head.  “I don’t…know…ww—what…”  He looked at John in bewildered surprise. “Dad?” he winced.  “Dad…I feel…ffff…”  As he spoke John watched the right side of Dean’s face collapse like a building under demolition, half of his expression sliding down the slope of his skull.  All the natural tension snapped and his smile melted.  Even his right eyeball dropped like a marble, making him look frighteningly cock-eyed.  His eyelid fell just a second later, hiding the damage.  “Muhhhh!” Dean struggled to remain standing, his left hand trying to find purchase on the stand next to the bed.  John raced over, catching him just as his right leg buckled, and together they fell among the strewn fries. 

“Jesus, Dean.  Son!” John called out.  “Dean, speak to me.  What is it?”

Dean looked at John through one terrified eye.  “Mmmm…”  His left hand went to the back of his head.  “Ghhhnngh.” 

“Dad?” Sam yelled in fear.  “What’s happening?”

John didn’t respond.  He held Dean in his arms as a violent seizure began rocking them both, the spasms tossing Dean’s arms and legs about carelessly. 

John crushed his son to him.  “Don’t Dean.  Please don’t!” he begged.  John turned his devastated eyes on Sam as Dean bucked and flailed in his arms.  “Get help as fast as you can.  Now, Sam.  Go!”

**_To Be Continued…_ **

* * *

 

** Translations: **

“Isn’t on your flying by.  Shame for line on your you.”— **Don’t be scared, Dean.  You’re going to be fine.  I promise.**

“Many next on the over stonikh bring asperray in for.  Lap extra tree by my on the silk.”— **The poor thing is absolutely terrified.  Let’s go with 4mg of Versed.**

“Mmuuhgh!  Am on the fork, but the sideways can lip sugar.  Back.  Back…with the fire.  Move!”— **Mmuuhgh!  I hear you, but my back hurts.  Wanna move.**

“On the sideways,”/”Back on the Move.”— **I need to turn.  Need to ease my back.**

“Seeing you in the me over in over by the black man.  Dying back move.”— **Yeah, I’m friggin’ Batman, lady, but my back is killing me.**

“Following isn’t on you cliff, Sammy.”— **Thanks for the CliffsNotes, Sammy.**

“Speak more and more?”— **Can you repeat that?**

“Don’t remember on it.  What will you do?”— **I don’t remember.  What did you say?**

“Say, say?”— **Say again?**

“Why in my boob brain for mean, Sammy?”— **Why would I have a brush on my brain, Sammy?**

“Sammy’s dad?  What for it funny?  It’s hair on my boob, hello?”— **Dad?  What’s so funny?  It’s a hairbrush, right?**

 


	4. When Darkness Reigns

 

They’d been sitting for hours in shell-shocked silence, and by 11:45pm, as the two Winchesters waited for word—any word at all, Sam was busily torturing himself.  He’d been so stupid—so, so stupid.   How could he have just ignored it?  He hadn’t even asked Dean about the hunt or what the skinwalker had done to his hand, because, well—because he had been lulled by Dr. Michaels’ and his dad’s confidence.  He’d been so happy to have Dean awake and laughing and making sense again.  He’d simply planted his head ostrich-style, wanting to believe everything was OK.  He’d let it go; he’d become complacent, and now look what had happened.  He should have called his Uncle Bobby.  He should have gone to the library and done research on his own if he had to.  He should have made absolutely certain that his brother was safe.  This was entirely on him.  Dean may be dying right now because Sam _should’a_ done what he didn’t.

Sam was haunted by the image of his brother sagging into his father’s arms.  He had thought Dean’s earlier seizures had been disturbing, but this?  This had been savage and unrelenting.  His brother’s limbs had stiffened and writhed spastically, and the shaking had gone on and on even after Muriel and Nan had run in and sounded an alarm.  Soon, five or six other people were there, and they’d taken Dean straight away, leaving Sam and his dad standing in dumbfounded silence amid a mess of sour urine and french-fries.  And that was it.  They’d been waiting since then with absolutely no news whatsoever.

“We should call Uncle Bobby,” he said again, leaning toward his dad, refusing to let their ‘discussion’ go.

“Not another word about it, Sam,” John said, rocking in his seat erratically.  The man’s huge palm pushed Sam back against his chair with more force than the boy expected.  It shocked him.  His dad had always been gruff, but he’d never been physically violent with him, not ever.  Sam shrunk back in his chair but couldn’t help but try and get him to listen to reason.

“Dad, please.  Let’s just call Uncle Bobby or Jefferson…or Travis.    _Somebody_ has to know something about skinwalker poison.  I am beg…”

John spun around in his seat, snarling.  His eyes were raw with intense pain and worry.  His tone didn’t speak to that, though.  It was wild and lashed out angrily at the child.  “Stop it, Sam,” he seethed.  “I’ve had it with this song and dance; now shut your goddamned mouth and wait for the doctor.”  Sam sat stunned, tears dripping out of his eyes. 

“I just wanted…” he began to gulp and heave.  “I just wanted…”  John’s shoulders drooped and he shakily massaged his temples.  When he opened his eyes again, they were also wet, and the spite and frustration had left them. 

“I know, Sam,” he said, blowing out a low, stuttering breath.  “I know.  I know you just want to help, but this _isn’t_ helping right now.”  He opened his stance a little.  “Come here,” he said, fisting Sam’s shirt-sleeve and pulling him into a one-armed embrace.  “Please, just sit.  Let’s just wait and find out what is going on before we do anything.”  Sam was fighting the sobs in his throat, swallowing them the best he could.

“Dad, I just ww—want Dean t—to…”  John tried to rub his back a little, but he looked up when he felt Sam’s body go rigid.  John turned and rose as a woman in a crisp lab-coat with an even crisper stride approached.

“Mr. Winchester?” 

“Who are you?” John asked sharply, the furnace in his eyes reigniting.  “What the hell happened?  Where’s Dr. Michaels, and where’s my son?” 

The woman extended a hand that John refused to take.  “I’m Dr. Abbott,” she said, arching an eyebrow and withdrawing her hand.  “I’m a colleague of Dr. Michaels,” she said primly and paused. 

“All right.  So, you gonna just stand there or are you gonna tell me what’s happening to my son?” John snapped, looking the woman up and down.  Dr. Abbott sucked in a breath, staring at him, surprised and offended.  She took a few beats before continuing. 

“I’ve been asked to come take you to Dean.  Dr. Michaels is on the phone, but he’ll be in to see you as soon as he’s finished,” she said.

“You’re telling me that the doctor had to take a _phone call_ before coming to talk to us?”  John blazed.  The doctor held up her hand before he finished.

“Mr. Winchester, he’s making a call to a colleague in Phoenix concerning your son’s case,” she said, now somewhat peevish and defensive from his aggression.  “Please, follow me.  We’ve moved Dean back to the ICU and the doctor will meet you there as soon as he’s finished.”  

“What the hell happened to my boy?” John demanded, refusing to move.  The doctor stopped and regarded him quietly with a nod.

“The aneurysm ruptured,” the doctor said matter-of-factly.  “The bleed has triggered a stroke, but as I said, Dr. Michaels will be in to see you and answer all of your questions just as soon as he can.”

John’s eyelashes fluttered as his brain balked against her words.  “A stroke?  Dean’s had a stroke?”

“Yes,” she said blandly.

“A stroke?”  John said shaking his head, as though he hadn’t heard her the first time.  “What does that even mean?  What happens now?”

“The doctor is working on that.  Please, Mr. Winchester, this is a time-sensitive situation.  I’m sorry, but we really must go.  Follow me, and the doctor will see you in a few minutes.”  Dr. Abbott began moving at a brisk pace, and John and Sam had no choice but to follow her in horrified silence.

She stopped them at the door to the PICU before allowing them to go in.  “I need you to prepare yourselves.  Dean is still unconscious, and he’s been placed on a ventilator.  Right now, this is for assistance only.  You can go in and see him.  Dr. Michaels will be in as soon as he can.”  She opened the door and stood back, letting them enter before turning and walking away.  

* *

By 12:05am visiting hours were long over—not that it mattered.  Visiting hours no longer applied to them.  Sam’s brain registered that Sophia was in the room, as well as several other nurses, but they were merely indistinct forms in the vicinity.  He only had eyes for Dean.  His brother was in the same bay he’d been in a week ago—first bed on the left, wires, IVs and tubes attached to every limb.  He even had a blood-pressure cuff on the calf of his leg.  Sam supposed they’d run out arms to use.  A ribbed ventilator hose was snaked down his throat, and Dean’s chest rose and fell every time the machine hissed.

Sam padded over to the side of the bed.  Everything was distorted by haloes and starbursts due to his tears, but even taking that into account, Sam could see that Dean looked…horrible.  Truly awful.  Sam had seen his brother zonked out from pain-meds and sedatives before.  He’d seen him battered and bruised, sleeping fitfully in pain.  He’d seen his brother delirious with fever from the Chicken Pox.  But at no time in Sam’s life had he ever seen his brother just not be there.  The boy didn’t know where his brother was, but that form in the bed was not him.  Dean didn’t look sick—he looked _absent_. 

Sam’s glance swept up and down Dean’s body and then up again, settling on his brother’s eyes.  Both were slightly open, the only Dean-like quality that Sam could recognize.  Dean had often times slept with his eyes somewhat slitted.  Sam had, in fact, teased him for it when they were young; that was until Dean had told him that sleeping that way was how he watched over Sam at night.  Only the smartest and best hunters did that, Dean’d informed his brother, and it took a lot of skill and training to be able to do correctly, he’d made sure to add.  Nothing could ever get Sam while Dean was on the nightshift, he’d assured him.  After that Sam never poked fun again, and he always felt a little safer, slept a little sounder, knowing that Dean was there with his slow-roving eyes making sure nothing came close without his big brother knowing.  Now, however, Sam saw no motion or vigilance in those eyes.  The left eye showed nothing but the white peeking through the slit of the lid.  The iris of Dean’s right eye was lying puddled in the bottom corner.  It almost appeared that he was looking at Sam.  Except he wasn’t.  There was no sight in that eye, no thought, no life—no Dean.  He simply wasn’t there.

“That’s OK, Dean,” he whispered low enough that his dad couldn’t hear him.  “I got this watch,” the little boy said, sniffling.  “So, don’t worry, OK?  I got this one.  I got this one, OK?”  Sam quieted when he heard his father clear his throat and come up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder.  The two stood together watching Dean, silently.  All the monitors ticked and pinged and whooshed, letting them know that, absent or not, Dean’s body was still there.  He was still alive.  The child felt his father grip his shoulder so tight that it hurt, but Sam didn’t say anything.  He needed the contact just as much as his dad did.

They stayed like that until Sophia wafted over.  Her eyes went to Dean and she stood with them.  She was silent and sad.

“He’s not in any pain,” she tried to comfort them, her voice a soft, hymn-like whisper.  She made a few adjustments to the ventilator and then turned back to them. “Can I get anything for either one of you while you wait for Dr. Michaels?” she asked. 

John stared at her without comprehending.  He finally blinked his eyes.  “No,” he said vacantly.  Sophia nodded, her face gilded with sympathy.  “What is taking the doctor so damn long?  What are you people going to do for my son?”

Sophia’s eyes became a little wary.  “Dr. Michaels is in a phone-conference with some colleagues about Dean’s treatment.  He’s actively working on this, Mr. Winchester.  The doctor will be in as soon as the consultation is over.  Be patient.”

John shook his head, appalled.  “Would _you_ be patient if this was your son?” he asked in disgust. 

“No.  I wouldn’t,” she admitted plainly, placing her palm on John’s arm.  They stood in silence for a moment longer.  “Let me know if you need anything—anything at all.  Say your prayers and hang in there, Mr. Winchester.”  She patted his arm again and gave it a little squeeze before turning back and joining the host of nurses huddled at the ICU station, stealing glances now and again as they quietly talked among themselves. 

Muriel drifted in a few moments later.  She’d stayed late doing paperwork, she told them.  She gave both John and Sam a hug and then stood with them watching Dean, her eyes still and contemplative in her plump, cherub-like face.  She remained there, a quiet guardian until she reached for a tissue in her pocket and left the room abruptly without a word.  

“Take a seat, Sam,” John said after Muriel left, but Sam shook him off. 

“No,” he said.  “I don’t want to.”  Sam heard his dad sigh, but the man didn’t press him.  The boy took his place at Dean’s side, and he reached for his hand.  Despite what his father had said, he turned his brother’s hand over, checking on the skinwalker ‘bite’.  He had to be sure.  He caught his breath when he looked and saw that the purple-red dot was still visible against Dean’s ghostly pale hand.  The scab was gone, almost as if it had healed well, but there was still a small mark there.  If the mark was still there, then any poison could still be at work.  All this time and Sam hadn’t bothered to keep on top of it.  He wasn’t just a horrible hunter, he was a horrible brother. 

Sam said nothing.  His dad would only fight him on it.  Maybe the skinwalker had done something to his Dad, too.  Maybe the skinwalker had cast a spell on his father, making it so that he wouldn’t listen to reason.  Laying Dean’s hand down gently, he turned and looked at his father suspiciously.  “I have to use the restroom,” he said.

Before John could respond, Sam had bolted out the door. 

* *

By 1:20am the doctor still hadn’t shown, and now John was wondering where the hell Sam had gotten to.  He hadn’t a clue how long it had been since he’d left for the bathroom; the hunter’s sense of time was so out of whack that there was no way to be certain anymore.  He estimated it had been long enough for the boy to have gone to the bathroom and back several times over. 

“Sonofabitch,” John hissed.  He left the ICU and jogged to the men’s room at the end of the hallway.  A quick search inside revealed no Sam.  “Goddamn it, Sam.”  The kid was probably having a full-on meltdown somewhere.  He headed to the elevator to go down to the chapel and check there.  Of his two sons, Sam had been the one to show an irrational religious bent—Murphy’s doing, that, no doubt.  Next time he saw the hunter he’d give him hell for filling the child’s head with nonsense.  There was nothing out there except chaos and evil.  Dean had always shared his pragmatism, but Sam…?  Sam still clung to a belief that there was a god who cared, who looked out for them.  John jabbed the down-button on the wall until the door finally opened.  He nearly crashed right into Dr. Michaels who was getting off the elevator.

“John!  Where are you going?” the doctor asked briskly.

“Sam went down to the chapel, I think.  I was on my way to get him.”  The hunter swung around and approached the doctor.  “What the hell took you so long?  What’s happening to my boy?” he demanded.  “We’ve been kept in the goddamned dark for hours.”

“I’m sorry, John,” the doctor said.  He took a breath.  “There was a rupture in the aneurysm.”

“Yeah, I got that memo from your assistant before she grabbed her broomstick and flew off.  Thanks for that, by the way,” he said venomously.  “What’s happening to him now, and what happens next?”

“The rupture triggered a stroke, and due to the aneurysm’s placement in the right posterior communicating artery within the Circle of Willis, Dean is now suffering from Oculomotor Nerve Palsy as well as—”

“Jesus, do you people even know how to speak English?  Stop throwing your fancy five dollar words at me and just _tell_ me what’s happening to my son!” John erupted.  Dr. Michaels stepped back and shook his head, sighing.

“All right, John,” the doctor remained poised and calm.  “The aneurysm has ruptured.  This means he is bleeding into his brain.  That bleeding is causing damage, and until it’s stopped, Dean will continue to deteriorate.”

“So your coil slipped?  Are you taking him back to the OR?  How do you stop the bleed?  How do you fix the stroke?” he barreled on.  The doctor remained calm and patient while John paced in a predatory circle around him. 

“The coil did not slip,” the doctor said.  “You son’s aneurysm was very large—much larger than the coil we placed within it.  We had hoped that the sac would shrink and adhere to the implant, but there’s been seepage into the chamber.  This, in turn, has led to the rupture.”  The doctor shifted.  “As for the stroke, right now we can’t treat that since the damage is ongoing.  The bleeding has to be stopped, and Dean has to be stabilized before we can adequately assess the amount of damage the stroke has caused.”

“So it didn’t slip.  It was just useless,” John said bitterly as he paced.

“No, not entirely.  It is, in fact, still acting as a dam between the artery and the aneurysm, keeping most of the blood out of the sac.  Had the aneurysm ruptured without the coil in place, Dean would not have survived the initial breach.  That is the sad reality we’re dealing with, John.  Nevertheless, your son’s condition is very grave.”

“What happens now?  You gonna make a few more calls maybe, huh?” John’s misdirected anger was laser focused on the man before him.  He abruptly changed the direction he was pacing around the physician, circling now the other way.  He stopped within inches of the doctor’s face.  “Discuss the case with a colleague or two over a nice game of golf?  The New York Times crossword calling your name?” 

Dr. Michaels waited until John had exhausted himself.  When the terrified hunter finally paused to pass a trembling hand over his stubble, the physician took a steady breath and went on.  “Dean will not survive without a craniotomy.  The aneurysm has to be clipped.”  John did a small double-take, confused.

“Wait.  I thought you said you couldn’t clip his aneurysm.  Isn’t that why you put the coil in to begin with?”

Dr. Michaels looked at him steadily.  “You are correct.  I can’t perform a craniotomy in that region without compromising blood-flow to the rest of the brain,” he said guardedly.

“Then why the _fuck_ are you even talking about it then?”

“John,” the physician put up a calming hand, placing it on the hunter’s arm.  “We’re all on your side.  We’re all on _Dean’s_ side.  I promise you that.”  The hunter leaned back, pressing his skull into the wall and thumped it a couple of times to give him the patience to continue listening.  He snorted and gave a slight nod, standing down.  The doctor went on, quietly.  “ _I_ can’t perform a traditional craniotomy on Dean.  No surgeon can.  But...” he pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to John.

“Dr. William Metzger,” the physician said with a nudge toward the business card.  “He’s a colleague of mine—Director of the Barrow Neurological Institute.  It’s a research hospital in Phoenix,” he said, pausing.  

“So?”

“He’s pioneered a new surgical technique that may be able to help Dean,” he said.

“What technique?”

“It’s a unique procedure that will allow the surgeon to perform a craniotomy.  The method is still experimental, but I just got off the phone with him and he has agreed to treat Dean if you will give your consent for the procedure.”

“He’s going to do a craniotomy?”

“If you give your consent, yes.  The surgery is not yet available to the general public, but I felt that Dean was an excellent candidate for the procedure, given his age and exceptional health prior to the rupture.” 

“How is this going to be done?  Is he coming here?”

“No.  We’ll have to fly Dean to Phoenix.  It has to be done at the institute since the surgery is performed by a team of neurosurgeons who have been trained specifically for this.  It is a very delicate operation.  We don’t even possess the equipment that would be necessary to perform the procedure here.”

“Experimental?  Don’t have the equipment?  Yeah, that breeds confidence,” the hunter scoffed.  So, what aren’t you telling me?  What are you going to let them do to my boy?” he demanded.

Dr. Michaels cleared his throat and drew himself up.  He spoke slowly, picking and choosing his words carefully, knowing that the explanation could cause a volatile reaction from a man whose emotions were already operating on a hair-trigger.  “The surgery will involve reducing Dean’s body temperature and putting him in a type of…stasis, if you will, while they perform the craniotomy.   In this state, his metabolic functions will cease—heart, lungs, brain activity—all of it will be shut down temporarily.  Once this stasis or _standstill_ has been achieved, they will drain the blood from his head.  Under these conditions the craniotomy will be performed.  There will be no threat of cutting off blood-flow to the brain, because there won’t be any blood flowing at the time.”

John was utterly floored.  He stood blinking rapidly, trying to digest the inconceivable scenario he’d just been told.  Finally, he exploded.  “Jesus Christ!”  His voice was nothing but gravel, now.  “ _This_ is your fix?  You want me to allow my son to be used as a guinea pig…for this?    _Stasis_ my ass!  It sounds like death!”

“Well, for about half an hour during the procedure, clinically speaking?  Yes.  It will be,” Dr. Michaels said quietly.  “As for being used as a guinea pig, though, you should know that Dr. Metzger has already performed over twenty Standstill procedures.”

“Yeah?  And how many of those were successful, huh?” John asked with a glare, his breath galloping.

The doctor shifted.  “About fifty-percent.  But that means ten people are alive today who would otherwise have died.”  He continued to watch John.  The hunter shook his head and leaned hard against the wall, placing his hands on his knees as he strove to control his breathing.  “John, would you rather have Dean ‘dead’ for thirty minutes or for an eternity?  Because I’m not going to sugar coat this, here.  This is it.  John.  This is it.  This is Dean’s only option right now.  Dean is bleeding into his brain with no other way to stop it.  I can’t give him more than forty-eight to seventy-two hours before…”  John winced, slamming his eyes shut against the unthinkable.  “Without this procedure he has no chance.  _With_ the procedure, his chances are still slim, yes.  No question about it.  And even if he does make it through the surgery he will still be suffering the effects of the stroke.  But there _is_ a chance.  And I wanted to offer that to you.  I wanted to offer that to Dean,” he said with a passion that surprised both men.  It forced John to open his eyes and look at the doctor.

The hunter paced back and forth, his hand spidering along the wall for balance.  “The stroke…” John asked.  “How bad was it?  Be straight with me.  Will he still be Dean or will he just be a vegetable when this is all over?”

The doctor firmly shook his head.  “I can’t give you any guarantees, John.   The coil is still blocking most of the blood-flow into the aneurysm and that has prevented damage that would have proven fatal had it not been there, but even a small bleed can cause a high degree of insult.  I would expect a lengthy rehabilitation as a best case scenario.  It will be a challenging journey for your whole family.  But I wouldn’t have called Dr. Metzger if I thought there was no hope of giving Dean his life back.  He is so young.  He’s strong in body.  But it’s more than that, John.  That boy is unbelievably strong in will.  He’s one of the most determined kids I’ve seen in my twenty years as a Neurosurgeon.  I would not recommend this surgery for the average patient.  The Barrow Institute does not normally take an emergency case like this, especially unsolicited in the middle of the night—and frankly, I’m shocked that Dr. Metzger agreed to it.  I’m doing this because Dean is…” he fumbled a little.  “He’s special.  He’s strong.  He deserves this chance.”

John leaned against the wall and closed his eyes in thought, in fear—in hope.  “Jesus,” he said under his breath, pressing the heel of his palm to his temple.  His own head was thrumming and throbbing painfully.

“I’m sorry, John.  I know this is a difficult decision, but I need to know your answer.  I can’t compel you to do this, since it is an experimental treatment.  But I’ve already begun putting this process into motion and if this is not your wish, then I need to try and stop what has become a juggernaut of activity both here in Provo and in Phoenix.”

John’s eyes flew open.  “Do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Do it,” John said again.  “If anyone can come back from this, it’s my boy.  You say you owe him this chance?  I owe him more.  I owe him more than you could possibly understand—more than I will _ever_ be able to repay whether this works or not.  Do it.”

“All right, John,” Dr. Michaels said.  “I’m going to make more phone calls.  I have to fax copies of his angiogram and CT scans to the institute as soon as possible.  I’ll be sending the originals with the paramedics.  Things will soon become very chaotic, so get ready.  The next twelve hours are going to be…well…they’re going to be hell.  Buckle up.  We’ll keep you as up to date as we can and get you and Sam where you need to be when you need to be there.”

“How is all of this going to work?  How are we going to get to Phoenix?”

“The Institute is covering the medevac.  We’re going to prepare Dean for airlift to the airport.  Once there, an air ambulance will take you to Phoenix.”

John tried to take a deep breath.  “Ok.  Christ,” he said pacing and grabbing the wall for balance.  “Ok.  God, I have to find Sam.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Dr. Michaels pressed the button for the elevator but then turned.  “Oh, and John?”

The hunter eyed him.  “What?”

“This is an experimental surgery.  So, the Institute is covering the cost of this with their research grants.  There will be no bill.”

John looked at the man.  “I don’t care,” he said.  “I don’t care.  I’d have sold my soul if that’s what it took.   I’d have done whatever necessary to get the money.” 

“I know you would have,” the doctor said.  “But this hopefully sets one small corner of your mind at ease.”

“It doesn’t,” John said honestly.  “None of that means anything to me.”

“I hear you.  Just the same,” the surgeon added.  “There will be several legal waivers that you will have to sign once you get to Phoenix.”  The elevator door opened up.  “I’ll be in and out quite a bit while we get everything ready on our end, but if I don’t get the chance to talk to you again…” he hesitated.  “Good luck—to all of you.” 

“Yeah,” John said as the elevator door closed on the doctor.  John pushed himself away from the wall only to find he was too dizzy to stand unaided.  He leaned back against it until he’d gotten his center.  He staggered a few steps then slowly straightened up, his face becoming sharp and hard and resolute.  He looked at his watch.  He still had to find his wayward son.

“Dammit, Sam,” he said and pressed the button for the elevator. 

* *

When John reached the lobby by 1:35am, he spotted Sam at a bank of pay-phones feverishly dialing a number.  John thundered over, grabbed the handset and hung it up forcefully. 

“Who were you talking to, Sam?”

The boy looked at his father, shocked and intimidated.  “I…no one,” he said, wide eyed.

“Who were you talking to, Sam?”  John’s face was menacing.  Sam couldn’t get his tongue to work fast enough.

“I—I…Dad, I ww—wasn’t!”  The child took a stumbling step back from his father.  He stopped quickly, regaining his footing and pushed back, his lips set like tightly strung barbed wire.  “I’ve been trying to call Uncle Bobby, but I can’t get an answer, OK?  Please Dad, let’s call him in the morning.  He can help.  I know he can!”

“You’re wrong, Sam.  He can’t.  Now let’s go.”

Sam’s mouth opened and closed as he strove to control his anger and frustration.  “You don’t know that, Dad,” his voice cracked, and he swatted away the tears that began welling up no matter how hard he tried to stop them.  “You don’t know!  Even if Bobby couldn’t help, don’t you think he’d want to know what’s happening to Dean?  Don’t you think he’d want to be here?”

“God damn it, Sam.  Singer and I aren’t even speaking to each other right now.  He can’t help us.  He’s not Dean’s goddamned father.  _I am._   I’m not calling him.”  He reached for the boy and grabbed his shoulder even as Sam tried to flinch away. 

“We have to fix what the skinwalker did, Dad.  We can’t give up!”  He was openly sobbing now.

The hunter shook his son.  “This has nothing to do with hunting, Sam.  He just got sick.  I hate it, too.  I hate it so damn much, but that’s the truth.  Now stop this right now.”

Sam worked to get his words out.  “W—we have to help him, Dad.  We have to do something!”

“We are!” John nearly shouted.  “ _They_ are.  The doctors—they’re going to do another operation, but we have to go, now.  You can’t lose your shit on me now, Sam.  Focus.”  John gentled a little.  “I need you to keep it together, now.  For Dean.  This isn’t over, Sam.  They’re gonna help him, I promise.”

“How?”

John stood and started pulling Sam down the hallway toward the elevator.  “They’re going to do an operation in Phoenix.  Now let’s go.  We have to move.”

“What kind of operation?” Sam wanted to know as he struggled to walk.  John was holding him at an odd, tilted angle, and he was more or less being dragged along.

“It’s nothing, Sam.  Just a small operation.  They’re going to clip the aneurysm and then everything will be fine.  Now move,” the hunter said through gritted teeth.

* *

By 4:15am things were moving a lot faster, and both John and Sam were numb with exhaustion and worry.  Muriel, who had continued working long past her shift to help with arrangements, followed the Winchesters to their four-room apartment above an old Laundromat.  It took them less than five minutes to blindly collect their duffels and throw as many random items in as they could gather quickly.  John noticed that Sam had pulled out Dean’s duffel from under the bed and had begun haphazardly tossing clothes in that as well.

“We don’t need to take that much, Sam.  What are you doing?  Pick just a few things and go,” John barked, wanting to lock up and get back to the hospital. 

“This is for Dean, Dad.  He’ll need clothes to come home in.”  Sam looked stung.  “Won’t he?”  John shook his head, surprised by his dark thoughts and the fact that he hadn’t thought about Dean needing clothes for the journey back home.  He nodded.

“Yes.  Of course—you’re right.  Get it and let’s go.”

They left the Impala at the apartment.  Muriel drove them back to the hospital and stayed by their sides until the medevac helicopter showed up, helping them get from place to place so they wouldn’t have to think about it themselves.  They’d been unable to spend any time with Dean after coming back from the apartment.  Too many people were in the ICU with Dean, getting him ready.  Sam and John were no longer allowed in.  Muriel took them up to the rooftop staging-area just inside from the helipad.  There they sat with their duffels ready, saying nothing to Muriel or to each other.  Sam’s head was pressed against the window, fingers absently ghosting patterns in his breath-mist.  His eyes were far away. 

By 6:30am the helicopter had arrived and John and Sam barely caught a glimpse of Dean as he was brought up, flanked by paramedics and other personnel.  The Winchesters became separated from Muriel before they could thank her, and they found themselves being hustled toward the helicopter and boarded first, taking seats directly behind the pilot.  Dean was brought in, and, once situated along with two paramedics, the helicopter was soon in the air.  Upon landing at the airport a few minutes later, John and Sam were held back from getting out of the craft until after Dean had been taken out.  They were finally ushered to the plane once the patient had been settled, and by 7:00am they were on their way to Phoenix at last.  The air ambulance was more spacious and plush than John was expecting.  Still, he and Sam were seated toward the tail of the plane, away from Dean.  John could barely see his son with the paramedics incessantly hovering and seated within inches of him.  The medics were constantly checking him and making small adjustments to the equipment he was attached to.

By 7:35 am the sun was yawning on the horizon as they flew over the Grand Canyon.  John looked down at the majestic expanse below him and could no longer fight his tears.  Dean had tried on at least three separate hunts to convince John to stop.  Even though they’d been just a few hours away each time, John had always refused.  He’d had more important things do at the time, more pressing issues on his mind, hunts that needed his attention, leads on Mary’s murder that needed looking into.  There’d always been something.  And John hated himself so fucking much for that right now.  He searched his memory and tried to think, really think, if Dean had _ever_ asked for anything for himself other than that.  He remembered the kid not just asking but demanding more money for food a few years ago because the school nurse had said that Sam was underweight.  He’d ask for better clothes for his brother or beg John to pony up to cover the cost of a school fieldtrip that Sam didn’t want to miss, or he’d hit him up so that he could take Sam to the movies on his birthday.  But no matter how hard he thought, John could not remember one goddamned time that Dean had ever asked for anything for himself other than to stop at the Canyon for a quick peek.  And John couldn’t be bothered, just like he couldn’t be bothered to even remember his son’s sixteenth birthday.  He blinked as the sun dazzled his view.  _God Dean,_ he thought, remorse and longing burning a hole in his chest.  _Christ, I’m sorry._   He looked over at his son.  _I’m so very sorry._

John glanced over at Sam who was slumped in his seat, his small body unable to resist the pull of sleep any longer.  The child was bent nearly double, and John was glad the flight would be short, because the kid would have a couple of vicious kinks in his neck and back if he stayed in that position much longer.  

The boy’s quiet sleep didn’t last very long, however, because by 7:45 am, Sam was shocked awake when the alarm on the ventilator went off, filling the cabin with a high-pitched whine that had John up and moving forward before he knew what he was doing.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted.  The paramedics paid no attention to him and checked the equipment, making adjustments as they talked quietly together.  “I said, what’s happening?  Tell me,” he demanded.  The male medic held his hand up, shaking the hunter off and putting his focus back on Dean until he was satisfied that the teen was stable.  Finally he looked up at John still standing over them.

“Dean’s experiencing some respiratory distress.  We had to change the ventilator from partial to full assist.  He’s getting enough oxygen now.  Go back to your seat.”

“Full assist?  He’s not breathing on his own?”

“It’s not uncommon for the patient to require more assistance while in flight due to the altitude.  Remain calm, Mr. Winchester.  He’s stable.  Now, please sit down.  We’ll be landing in a few minutes.” 

* *

By 8:15am John was bellowing at a new set of paramedics who had met them upon landing.  Apparently there had been a miscommunication, and they were not aware that any family members were accompanying the patient.  They had initially refused them permission to board the helicopter.  And by 8:16am John had loudly and decisively set each and every one of them straight, and Sam and John were taking their cramped seats in the front of the craft.   

Once they’d reached the roof of the Barrow Institute, Dean was immediately whisked away without John or Sam being given so much as a single moment to spend with him.  They made their way into the building where they wandered the hallways asking anyone for information.  With all of the activity swirling around them, no one seemed to be able to tell them anything.  They were missing the guardian angel they’d had in Muriel back in Provo, but they finally found someone who was able to direct them to the surgical waiting area.  After signing all of the consent forms, Sam and John took seats and watched all the people milling about in a subdued, academic furor.   Apparently, word had spread throughout the facility of the emergency procedure, and dozens of students, Fellows, and researchers had turned up to assist or observe as they could. 

“Why is everyone so…excited, Dad?  Is this all for Dean?” Sam asked, watching the non-stop comings and goings.  “What’s going on?”

John shrugged.  “It’s nothing Sam.  It’s a research hospital.  Everyone is interested because,” John fumbled.  “Because it’s interesting.  Now keep still and be quiet.” 

Sam studied his father’s face.  “You’re not telling me everything,” Sam accused him. 

“I’m telling you everything you need to know,” John said with little emotion.  “Just once, Sam, please don’t argue.”  Sam shook his head at his father, disgusted.  He fell silent, but the fight in his eyes soon faded and he stared listlessly ahead.  After a moment, John reached over and absently stroked the boy’s head, knowing that Sam’s fears were as bald-headed and stark as his own. 

“This will be over soon, sport,” he said.  

Another interminable waiting game had begun.

* *

For Dean, time had ceased in those seconds after his father had tossed the fast-food bag to him.  He’d recalled being suddenly disoriented and lightheaded.  He’d still been aware when he’d fallen to the floor and his father had held him tight.  And he well remembered the sledgehammering pain in his head.  After that, however, he had only one final, tenuous memory of white lightning shooting through his entire body and then nothing but an inky, shoeshine blackness.  That could have been seconds ago, could have been years—neither would have been a surprise.  Then again, Dean no longer marked the passage of time or even knew what it was.  Then _again_ , he didn’t know what _he_ was or that he’d ever been.  Dean had been a non-entity for over sixteen hours now, and he certainly had no idea that he’d been in the eye of a hurricane of activity.  He had no notion of the grief and worry that his family had been experiencing.  He’d been spared the terror of the plane flight and had been shielded from the disappointment— _again_ —of missing his chance to see the Grand Canyon.

He didn’t care that by 9:45am he was lying on an operating table at the Barrow Neurological Institute in Phoenix, Arizona, and he didn’t sense any difference when the Thiopental was administered as anesthetic at 9:55am.  Dean didn’t feel the least bit self-conscious that some fifty doctors, students and researchers had gathered in a small room directly above him, all jockeying for one of the dozen available seats in the observation room.  The losers of this game of academic _musical-chairs_ would have to watch on closed-circuit TV in a large conference room.  Everyone wanted a chance to witness Dr. Metzger performing Deep Hypothermic Circulatory Arrest, or _Standstill_ , as it was more commonly referred to.

Dean never batted an eye when a massive dose of potassium chloride was injected, stopping his heart and never shivered when the cooling blankets were placed on his body at 10:40am.  He never suffered the least inconvenience when his body temperature reached a frigid 15-degrees Celsius, never worried a whit as his blood was drained from his brain.  Dean Winchester simply never knew that by 11:00am he was clinically dead. 

Oddly enough, though, that was that precise moment when Dean’s consciousness suddenly kindled back to life.

The first sense to be returned to him was his sense of sound.  Before he even had a sense of self, he could hear the sharp, guttural whine of what reminded him of a dentist’s drill.  It was unpleasant, strident and shrill.  The sound seemed to pool or centralize in the base of his spine where it soon became forceful and painfully vibrant.  The vibrations traveled up his spinal cord and settled in his skull, and he screamed out, or thought he had, when the pressure became a vise.  _Fuck!  I can’t!_   He cried voicelessly.  It felt as though his head was going to jackhammer apart.  Just when he thought he could take no more, he both felt and heard a loud whip-crack, and with that pop, the pressure and pain was instantly released.

The second sense to be returned to Dean was his sense of sight—or something akin to it, anyway.  As the dust settled from his head exploding—for he was pretty sure that’s what had happened—a room began to take shape around him.  It took him a moment to get his bearings and understand what it was that he was seeing, but now that the pressure had been released from his head he found it much easier to think.  He studied his surroundings and got the gist quickly.  He was in an operating room filled with bright lights, doctors, nurses, medical machinery—the whole nine-yards.  Despite the ease of recognition, though, there were several differences that Dean noticed right off the bat.  Everything around him was incredibly clear.  Colors were richer and more textured than he’d ever seen them, and details were sharper and more complex than he’d ever thought possible.  Objects that had been too small or too unimportant to notice before became vivid and dynamic.  For instance, the nurse monitoring the output of an EEG had a fingerprint of her right pinky on the lens of her eyeglasses.  She must have tried to adjust the glasses behind her ear just prior to putting her gloves on.  The doctor at the head of the table had a small mole behind his left ear that was almost entirely hidden by his crescent-shaped hairline there.

“All right everyone,” the doctor with the small mole addressed the doctors and nurses assembled.  “Almost there.”  He turned off the miniature drill-like contraption that he’d been holding in his hands, passing it off to an assistant.  Reaching down, he began to wiggle something free that he’d apparently been drilling or sawing into.

Watching the scene, Dean noticed that the doctor, as well as every other soul in the room, was focused on a bunch of drab, avocado sheets piled on a table in the center of the room.  The moment he paused to wonder what or who it was, though, he knew.  He just knew.  _He_ was the green pile, or…well…he was the body beneath that pile. 

It was strange, though.  In a situation where Dean would have normally wigged out completely, he felt oddly detached.  Yeah, he was the one being operated on, and yeah that body was his, but at the same time it really wasn’t.  His most significant response to what he was witnessing was simple curiosity, nothing more.  He decided to move a little closer for a better look, but before he could ‘think’ to move he realized he already had, and he was now hovering directly behind the shoulder of the doctor who’d been working the little saw.  _Awesome!_   It was actually kind of fun.  Thoughts that had been dulled for the past week were being processed at quantum speed, and movement was no longer hampered by molecules or atoms.  Thought and motion were instantaneous, as though they were one and the same thing.  Dean focused on the doctor again and watched as the man jiggled something loose, gently prying a large plate of bone away from the rest of the skull.  He handed it off to a nurse for safe-keeping. 

“There,” the surgeon said.  “Thirty minutes, people.  Let’s go.” 

 _Thirty minutes, huh?_ Dean thought wryly.  _Domino’s does brain surgery?_   _How cool is that!_   Whatever was happening, Dean didn’t figure it would kick up too much of a fuss if it only took a few minutes to do.  He was just beginning to wonder if he was dreaming perhaps—maybe tripping on anesthesia or something—when the room began to take on a vague, dappled glow, like moonlight filtering through naked branches.   Dean lifted his hands to his face and noticed a blue glow also welling in his palms.  Or maybe it was coming from them, wafting off his skin in very soft, rainbow fractals.  He felt a strange prickle, as though someone was standing behind him.

Dean turned around.  Nothing was there; yet, the presence he was sensing grew stronger and more magnetic.  There was a tug or surge deep within his own circuitry, like the bottomed-out floppy feeling of having driven the Impala over a dip in the road too quickly.  That’s when he saw the tiny pin-prick of light in the corner of the room.  There was an accompanying chime or musical chord attached to it, like wet fingers on a crystal glass, and as the light grew so did the sound. 

The teen could feel his body begin to resonate with the light.  He was tuning into its frequency, perhaps, or it was tuning into his, he wasn’t sure which.  All else in the room began to slip away and fade into the background, shapes becoming amorphous, sounds becoming nothing more than white-noise, until only the light and that one majestic tone were left.  Dean was being compelled toward the light.  It was so very beautiful.  There was power and strength and grace there—maybe the answers to all the questions he’d ever had.  Dean wanted to find out more, but even as he was moving toward the light and entered a dark tunnel that pulled him along irresistibly, he suddenly remembered his family.  Panic jolted through him.  _Sammy!  Dad!_     

The third sense to be returned to Dean was his sense of terror. 

 _Wait!  Stop!_ he tried to bargain, struggling in vain to scuttle against the vacuum pulling him through the tunnel toward the light.  _No! I can’t leave them!  They need me.  Please…I’m not ready!_

**_To Be Continued…_ **

 


	5. To Keep Thee In All Thy Ways

 

Dean’s struggle gained him no ground, and it soon became obvious no amount of begging, bargaining, or grappling was going to stop his corkscrew journey through the tunnel; there was no way to break the gravitational pull it had on both his body and mind.  It proved an irresistible force, and his panic and fear for himself and his family only deepened as he plummeted toward that shining globe. 

The Light pervaded each of his senses, taste, touch, sight, sound—even his sense of smell.  Dean discerned the vague essence of summer rain on warm asphalt, a scent that he didn’t even know he could distinguish let alone find to be something familiar and comforting.  Yet he did.  The rays of the Light burst forth as he approached, and despite the terror, his soul leapt at the beauty.  And as he rocketed forward, it felt as though his very core was igniting like the coma of a sunward comet, and suddenly, all in an instant, his anxiety was displaced with joy and delight and he could remember every thought he’d ever had and experience every moment that he’d ever spent and feel every hurt he’d ever known and connect with everything that had ever held meaning and value for him—the gloss of the sun on the Impala, his dad’s rare but infectious laugh, Sammy’s dimpled smile, the smell of his mother’s clean, warm neck, Bobby’s kitchen in the morning—it was all right there in that brilliant, infinite radiance, and the shine of it, its rays now stretching as vast as the universe, filled his vision and his heart, and it drew him in and he felt no more fear and he no longer resisted—no, not even a little bit—and he flew straight at the Light with everything he was and with everything he ever would be and with everything he had to give, and he fell into it and it burst around him and through him and became him.  And for one limitless, eternal, cosmic second in time, his consciousness bubbled and expanded far beyond the confines of Dean Winchester and the life he’d lived, and he knew everyone else’s life, too, and everything there ever was to know—past, present and future, right down to the number of sand-grains in the Sahara and he knew peace for the first and only time in his life—and then…

He was on his knees, nascent and fawn-like, his head bent to the floor, struggling to rise but unable to do so until the inclination left him entirely and he stopped fighting and he slept, or experienced something very close to sleep.  And his mind slowly unfolded and settled, recovering from the overwhelming ecstasy it had suffered, and Dean felt the cool floor beneath his cheek.  And it was enough.  It was one small, solid _something_ to lean against, to help him realize that he might also be solid and tangible.  There was no way to know how long he’d lain prostrate and quivering like a tuning fork, no way to be sure if a thousand lifetimes had flown past him or none at all.   He slowly returned to himself, his consciousness narrowing until it filled only the small space that he occupied.  And as he lay there feeling like an overwatered cactus, his perceptions diminished and he could no longer remember what he’d known in that strange second, only that he _had_ _known_ all that there was to know, and even that understanding was now beginning to wither.  He slipped onto his side and then rolled until he was on his back, looking up at nothing, spent and gulping in the white light, and it was better than any air he’d ever tasted.  He felt exhausted, as though he’d been hurled around the sun and back.  And he closed his eyes and he slept again. 

He was still floating softly when he felt the tidal pull of awareness.  Opening his eyes once more, he lifted his hands to his face just to see if they were still there, to gauge if he still existed or not.  They were there, as crisp and sharply visible as those people he’d seen back in the operating room.  That was a relief.  He turned his hands over and studied the backs of them as well.  He was mindlessly examining a small hangnail that he’d noticed for the first time, when he heard a small ruffle or flutter of movement off to his right. 

“Dean Winchester,” a low, musical voice said.  “You should not be here.”

Dean sat up and turned in the direction of the voice.  He was not necessarily afraid at first, but it surprised him to find that he was not alone.  Time stuttered and stretched as he beheld the being.  The creature evoked the same type of response that Dean had experienced upon seeing the Light.  The sight of the entity was too profound, too absolute, too infinite to process, and tears spilled from the boy’s eyes at the sheer majesty of it.  His senses were overwrought and emotions that had long been ignored, bottled and subdued sprang forth until they could no longer be managed, and Dean held his hands up to his face and shielded his eyes from the creature, cowering and trembling.  He remained that way until he perceived a shift, and the light and power diminished and the dread lifted enough so that Dean could tolerate being in its presence.  He finally moved his hands and lifted his eyes again.

It was a spirit of sorts—maybe of human origin—it definitely had human form: legs, arms, head, a vague sense of hair, eyes, nose and mouth.  The face was at once familiar and alien.  But Dean could not quite take in or capture its unique features by looking straight at it.  All the details were in the periphery.  The effect was not unlike looking at a star in the night sky.  Dean had always found that the longer he stared at a star, the more undefined and vague it appeared.  It was not until he would look away or just past it that the star could be seen clearly again.  And so it was with the creature he now faced.  Dean had to circle his vision around and to the sides to get a clean view of the being.  The figure was masculine, Dean decided, not necessarily due to any outward appearance, but instead he based his assumption upon the rather virile quality that the creature exuded.  It was comforting and nurturing, but the feeling was more like the worn seats of the Impala rather than anything overtly feminine or maternal.  It was definitely male or was currently operating at that frequency.

The entity looked to be made of the same numinous radiance that Dean had experienced in the Light, but enough of its potency had been quelled so that the boy could still function.  The creature seemed solid at first glance, but the longer Dean studied it the more aqueous the movements of the body became.  The spirit was standing next to a window that opened like a vignette in the white room they occupied, and Dean could see a vista of sunshine on an endless meadow or a Kansas wheat-field perhaps.  The rays of the sun shone overhead and surrounded the creature, giving the entity a gentle aureole of gold.  The being was beautiful, but almost all of Dean’s attention was given to its wings. 

The wings were golden, but suppler, more humble than the metal, and a soft, suffused light emanated from every quill.   Their texture was much like the husk of a chrysalis—delicate and weightless.  Every feather was an entity unto itself, independently motivated by an autonomous muscle structure.  Yet, each individual shaft worked in tandem with the others, behaving like a flock of birds in flight when they stirred or switched direction.  They seemed to be made out of spun glass, webbed and woven so intricately that it would take years to explore every quill, shaft, joint and muscle.  And yet, every single movement, every twitch and slight ruffle, every subtle quiver demonstrated how magnificently strong each wing was.  It was apparent, though, that their inherent power was veiled and deliberately subdued, just as it was within the creature itself, but Dean knew that if aroused, the beat of those wings would be more vast and terrible than the strongest hurricane.  Dean shivered and looked away.

The entity spoke again.  “You shouldn’t be here, Dean,” it said.

Dean sat, drawing his knees up and hugging them close for balance.  He had nothing else to hold on to, no other anchor.  After a time he slowly looked up.  “Are you God?” he whispered.

The entity shifted a bit, the wings undulating with life of their own.  Dean was spellbound by the beauty of the motion.  The boy watched as the creature considered his question.  It evinced a quiet thoughtfulness and then gave the teen a small, enigmatic smile. 

“No.  I am not God,” it said. 

Dean put his head back down, resting it on his knees.  He rocked slightly, dread and fear welling within him.  If it wasn’t God, then he had to have been caught by some gaudy, bedazzled hellspawn, and it was now employing trickery, using beauty and comfort to bait him.  And, just his luck, Dean didn’t have a single weapon to his name.

“Then what are you?” Dean asked without looking up.  He could hear feathers ruffling again as the creature moved closer.  Dean tried to back up, tried to scramble away, but he was rooted where he sat, stricken by fear or perhaps by a silent command from the creature.  He had no power to flee from it.  The boy stopped shivering and looked up, deciding to face the demon head on.  The thing was looking at him with liquid, sympathetic eyes.

“What are you?” Dean demanded again.  He was terrified, but he refused to cower any longer. 

The thing paused before answering.  “I’m an Angel of the Lord,” it said at last. 

Dean looked up and did a little double-take.  The teen waited for the smirk, waited for the bellowing laughter of the demon, waited for the façade to fall and the creature’s tentacles to emerge and drag him off to hell, but none of that came to pass.  The damn thing was looking at him with no hint of humor or deceit.  It continued to study him with big doe-eyes.  The boy and creature stared at one another until Dean could take it no longer.

“Ha!” Dean hooted out loud.  “No, seriously,” he said again.  “What the hell are you?”

The gilded hellspawn tilted its head and blinked a few times.  “I have told you, Dean Winchester.  I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Their staring contest continued until the teen’s brows tented and he huffed out a snort of doubt.  After another moment he began to realize that no punch-line was coming.  Dean stole another glance at the wings that rippled with light and then looked back at the creature.

“Get the hell out, dude,” he said with a dry, indignant huff.  “Everyone knows there’s no such thing.”

* *

John and Sam sat staring at nothing, each locked deep within his own thoughts.  John had never felt more drained in his life, but he hadn’t been doing anything other than sitting.  And that was part of the problem.  He shifted in his seat, trying to ease the tightness in his back.  It did no good.  Most of the tension wasn’t physical, anyway.  He looked at his watch, both craving and dreading news of his son’s condition.  The longer the wait dragged out, the more tense he became, and yet, every single moment that passed without word meant that his son was still alive or at least not irrevocably lost.  He looked at his watch again, not having actually noticed the time when he’d first checked.  This time he concentrated on the numbers.  It was 10:20am.  They’d been in Phoenix for more than two hours.  The operation must be well underway by now.  He wondered if his son was lying cold with no heartbeat or vital signs at this very minute.  His stomach lurched at the thought.  He shifted again, fighting an overwhelming impulse to run off and find the operating room and stop this insanity from happening to his child.  He felt a flashflood of adrenaline surge through him, and he needed to do something.  More than that, though, he needed to hurt something, to punch it, brutalize it—to kill whatever was causing his son pain.  He needed to waste it, gun it down, stick a knife in it, put a silver-tipped bow through its heart, salt and burn it.  He needed to protect his son, and he couldn’t.  There was no creature to blame, no spirit he could hold responsible, no poltergeist that he could lay to rest.  There was nothing he could do.  Nothing.  This was John Winchester’s worst nightmare; it was Mary in flames on the ceiling all over again. 

His eyes were hot and smoky from the burn of unshed tears and worry, and Christ he was tired—freighted and bent with a bone-deep exhaustion.  He looked at Sam to see if he was faring any better, but the child was just a statue, staring blankly ahead.  John roused, stirring in his seat. 

“Sam,” he said.  “You want some water or juice or something?  I think I saw a vending machine down the hall.”  Sam didn’t appear to have heard his father.  He was sitting there, his lips moving ever so slightly as if speaking to himself, or…shit…maybe he was praying.  “Sam?”  John tapped him, causing the boy to startle and look up blearily.

“What?” Sam responded lifelessly. 

“You’re off your game there, buddy-boy,” John said, ruffling his son’s hair lightly.  “You want something to drink?”

Sam stared at him some more, taking twice as long to process the question.  “No.  I’m good,” he said after a moment. 

“Mm hmm,” John said.  He got up and stretched.  “Well, I’m getting some coffee.  Wait with the stuff,” he said, moving the duffels with his foot so that they were closer to Sam.  He’d eventually have to think about finding some place for them to stay while they were in Phoenix, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.  It wasn’t likely they’d be leaving the hospital anytime soon.  He turned to walk down the hall, and he stopped suddenly, having forgotten what it was that he’d gotten up for.  Right.  Drinks.  He reached into his pocket and grabbed some change.

He wandered down the hall and tossed coins into the machine, grabbing a coffee, a Gatorade and two small bags of chips.  He headed back to Sam and handed him his drink and one of the bags of chips.

“I said I didn’t want anything,” Sam complained.

“True, but you need fluids and calories, dude.  Man up and feed your body even when you don’t want to.”  Sam sighed and twisted off the cap. 

“Whatever.”  He took a long drink, putting away most of the bottle in one go. 

John watched him and chuckled a little.  “Not thirsty, eh?” he tried to tease.  Sam looked at him vaguely and shrugged.  The boy didn’t open the chips, though.  He just fingered the edge of the bag mindlessly. 

“Dad?  How long is this gonna take?  It’s been longer than a half hour—way longer,” he said as he tried to stretch his back and neck.

“I know, Sam, but they have to do a lot of things before they can remove the aneurysm.  That may take only half an hour, but getting him to that point takes a lot longer.  And then they’ll have to take care of him afterwards.  We probably won’t be able to see him until late in the afternoon sometime.  That’s my guess.”

“Do you think he knows what’s happening to him?  Do you think he’s scared?” the boy wanted to know.

“No, kiddo,” John said.  “They have him well asleep.  Dean’s doing fine.  This is your big brother, right?  He’s not scared of anything.”

Sam wasn’t so sure about that.  Dean always acted like he wasn’t scared, but Sam could see it sometimes—hidden deep in his brother’s pale eyes.  Sam wasn’t three years old any longer, and even though he felt safer with Dean than with any other human, he knew his brother got scared more than he ever let on. 

Sam came out of his thoughts.  “We should pray, Dad.  We should pray for him.”  John twitched at that.  He uncrossed his legs and took his jacket off.  Picking up one of the duffels, he set it between them and patted it.

“Come here, Sam,” he said.  “Lie down and put your head right here.”  Sam looked at him questioningly.  “Come on,” he said patting the duffel again.  Sam scooched in, resting his head on the duffel and curling his legs up tight.  John put the jacket over him.  “Now close your eyes and you pray for the both of us, OK?”

“’K” Sam said as his eyes slipped shut.  John could see the kid’s mouth moving again.  About five minutes later his movements decreased until they stopped all together, and John could tell that the exhausted child was out. 

It was now 10:40am.  John rested a palm on Sam’s shoulder and held it there.  He closed his eyes briefly.  “You better not be real.  Because if you are and you take my son from me now, I will hunt you down and kill you myself,” he warned whatever might be listening.

* *

“Get out of town,” Dean said with a grunt of incredulity.  The creature tilted its head again, perplexed. 

“ _Town?_   I do not underst…” it began, but Dean cut it off with another hoot.

“Dude, I may be young, but I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.  Me and my family have been hunting sick sonsabitches like you for years.  So what are you really?  A revenant with a big ego?  An albino Mothman?  Liberace gone vengeful?  What?”

The being remained still; even the air and energy surrounding it became hushed and tense, waiting.  Dean swallowed thickly.

“I am as I have stated,” it contended.  Without warning the wings unfurled, arching up and expanding outward in an awe-striking display.  The golden light turned a burnished, tawny color and the wing-tips splayed out like fingers.  Dean could see jagged coils of lightning stretch away from them, and the room darkened.  The energy surging from the being became too much to withstand.

Dean’s head bent to the ground again under the weight of such terrible power.  He was shaking.  “Alright, alright!  Jesus!” Dean shouted and then gasped at what had just come out of his mouth.  “Sorry!  I mean…oh fuck, I didn’t mean to swear!” he said, quickly realizing that he’d just done it again.  “Shit!  Don’t smite me!  Please!” the flustered teen cried out in fear and dread.   He cringed, waiting for the worst, expecting to be vaporized at any second, but the energy in the room suddenly subsided.  He recovered enough to look at the creature…the thing…the…shit…the _angel_.   

“I’m not going to harm you, Dean Winchester,” the angel said.

Dean hesitated for a moment, taking it all in, trying to digest this new information and what it might possibly mean for him.  “So, I’m dead?  Is that it?”

“No,” the angel assured him.  “You aren’t dead.  But you should not be here.”

“Where’s here?” Dean asked.

“Your soul and consciousness have left your body, though death has not yet released you.  You are between worlds.  It happens sometimes when the soul and body suffer too much distress.  It’s more dangerous than you know, however.  It is well that I was watching.  A soul displaced from a living body leaves both vulnerable.  Don’t leave my sight and I will keep you safe.”

Dean looked confused.  “So what’s the deal?  If I’m not dead, what was that Light I saw?  Was it you?  God?  What’s happening to me?”

“The Light was not my Father, nor was it me,” the angel stated “Although, the source of the Light does come from Him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was the light of your own soul that you experienced,” the angel explained.  Dean looked at him blankly.

“Huh?” he said, stupefied. 

The angel went on.  “Upon separation from the physical body, the mind and soul go through a transformation into an astral form.  It is this quantum transformation that can appear to momentarily twist one’s perceptions of spatial reality, creating the sensation of traveling through a tunnel toward a light.  You were, in fact, not traveling at all, and the illusion of fission was just that—an illusion.  You are the light and the light is you.  It was beautiful, yes?”  The angel’s eyes were shining as he spoke.  “The process is really quite fascinating; I could go into more depth if you like.”

Dean lifted his eyebrows and quirked his cheek, snorting.  “Uh, yeah.  I don’t know what the hell you just said, but I’m good with the thumbnail outline, thanks though.”  He could have sworn that the angel actually deflated a little.  “I don’t understand, though.  If it’s all just me…what was with the freaky head-trip?  I mean,” Dean started to hesitate, finding it difficult to put his thoughts into words.  “It was like…I dunno.  It was like I knew everything for a moment.  That’s not me.”

The angel shook his head.  “But it _is_ you.  You have a limitless capacity for universal understanding.  You simply ignore it.  But upon joining with the astral form, there is often a brief moment of revelation.  Alas, it never lasts long, because most humans won’t allow it.”  The angel’s face softened, and he looked rather wistful and sad.  “Most don’t want it.”

“Right, _I am the walrus_ ,” Dean laughed.  “Yeah, OK, I get it.”  The angel, however, didn’t appear to understand.  Dean cocked an eyebrow at him and then shrugged, barreling on.  “So if I’m just a soul,” he flapped his hands in front of him.  “How come I have a body, Einstein?”  He lightly slapped his cheeks in demonstration. 

“You don’t have a physical body in this realm, but it pleases you to create one out of thought.  It’s easier for you, perhaps, to see it that way.”

“Huh.”  Dean took another look at his hands, then he looked at the angel.  “So what about you?  You look like a human to me, a little heavy on the fairy-dust and glitter, sure…but human nonetheless.”

“The process is much the same.  You view my Grace and create a corresponding form that is comprehensible to you.”

“Freaky.”  Dean thought for a moment.  “So angels exist?  _Really_ exist?  And God exists?”

The angel nodded.  “Most assuredly so.” 

Dean said nothing for a long time after that.  He sat, and his face slowly became a tapestry of emotion and churning thought.  Looking away from the angel, Dean’s humor evaporated and his eyes smoldered with anger.  He got up and looked out of the window and put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight.  His back tensed and twitched.  Finally he spun around.

“That’s so screwed up,” he said angrily.  He looked the angel in the eyes.  “That’s too jacked for words.  What the hell is wrong with you people?”

The angel stood calm but appeared somewhat baffled by the boy’s spite.  “I don’t understand what has caused your anger, Dean Winchester.”

The teen snorted.  “Don’t understand?  Do you have any idea…any idea at all what’s been going on down here?  Any idea what we’ve been going through?”  Dean stopped short and hissed out a breath.  “Did you know about my mom?  Did you?”

“I did,” the angel said quietly, his mien still placid. 

“And you just let it happen?”  Dean paced around, becoming more agitated.  He looked at the angel with disgust.  “ _She believed in you!_   She prayed to you all the time.  She never hurt anyone, never did anything to deserve that.  Why didn’t you help her?”

The angel remained absolutely poised.  “It was not our task to interfere, as it is not my task now to do so.  It was not I who was sent specifically to watch over your mother; although, at times several of my brothers and sisters were present.”

“Are you kidding me?  You just fly around watching people go through hell?  And you do _nothing_?”  Dean began looking around, searching for a way out.  He wanted to get away from the angel as fast as he could. 

“We don’t observe the lives of every human, only those whom our Father instructs us to,” the angel clarified.  “We are at times called upon to witness certain significant events,” he explained.   

“Significant, huh?  Then what the hell are you doing here?”  Dean continued to test the boundaries of the white room.  It seemed to expand the further he walked. 

The angel looked a little uncomfortable.  “I have been tasked with observing your…condition,” he said.

The boy stopped his wanderings and circled back toward the angel.  “Are you going to fix me?”

“That’s not my errand.  I have been instructed to watch only.”

“I might have guessed.”  Dean said bitterly.  “So, you gettin’ an eyeful, pal?”

“You are very ill,” the angel conceded.

“No shit.  So why me?  What’s so special about some random kid with a broken head?” 

“You are…” the angel seemed to hesitate.  “You are needed.”

Dean laughed, sharp and jagged.  “Well apparently not needed too much—not enough to bother to help, anyway.  Whatever, Liberace.  You keep up the good work,” he said archly, with a sarcastic curl of his lip.  “I’m gonna be on my way.”  The boy turned and began walking away.  He did not get very far before he felt a surge of vertigo, and the white room tilted oddly.  He stumbled to his knees.

“Whoa,” he said, pressing a shaky palm to his head as he tried to clear his vision.  He attempted to stand, but he ended up back on the floor.  “Son of a bitch!” he gasped.  His eyelids sagged and he wobbled as he tried to lever himself up onto all fours.  The angel was at his side immediately. 

“Dean Winchester, do not try to rise,” the angel said gently. 

“Dad?” Dean called out dreamily. 

“No,” the angel told him.  “Please, stay where you are.  You are very ill.”

The room tilted and lurched, making Dean feel like a stringless kite, wind-battered and spiraling earthward.  “Very ill?” he asked, disoriented and confused.  He looked down at his body.  “I don’ even have a real body.”  He flapped his hands around drunkenly.  “It’s jus’ thought.  How can I be sick?”

The angel pointed ahead of him and Dean swung his eyes that way.  The operating room was right there and so were the doctors and nurses.  The doctor with the mole was sticking an instrument deep into the folds of Dean’s brain.  “You are still connected to your body.  It is under much stress, and so your soul is also affected,” the angel explained.  His voice was soothing and kind, but that only served to touch off Dean’s anger all the more.

“Git y’han’s off me.”  Dean tried to push away the angel, but his brief attempt at escape ended with him right back in the angel’s grasp.  “Don’ need no stinkin’ angel’s help.  Take that to the bank and smoke it, pal,” he slurred.  He felt himself being lifted.  “Somethin’s wrong.  Don’ feel good,” he said as his head rested against the angel’s chest.  “Pu’ me down.  Lemme walk,” he whimpered dully.  

“You require assistance,” the angel said, looking down at the boy with pity.

“Nuh uh,” Dean whispered.  He opened his eyes a moment and watched the activity in the operating room.  The more he concentrated on the doctors and nurses, the more everything else faded until he and the angel were hovering right behind the surgeon.  He saw the doctor look up at the others, concerned.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem, here,” the physician said as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead.  “Damn,” he blew out a frustrated breath, shaking his head.  “This does not look good,” he said through tight lips.

“M’I dyin’?” Dean asked, as the angel gripped him.  The wings folded in, hiding the room from the boy’s view.  “Don’ lemme die, ‘k?  Don’ care ‘bout me, but I godda be there f’Sammy.  Please, s’important.”

“Rest Dean.  I will watch over you,” the angel assured him.  Dean felt a surge of light pass through him and his consciousness fled far away.

* *

John continued to stroke Sam’s shoulder as the boy slept.  The kid had been through hell and the hunter knew Sam would need the rest if he was going to make it through the remainder of the day.  Technically, he was asleep, but Sam seemed ill at ease, his hands balled into fists, eyelashes fluttering, his lips pursing and muttering in his dreams.  The hunter hoped that even this fitful sleep would serve to have some kind of palliative effect on the child.  It was shitty sleep, sure, but it _was_ sleep.

After a few minutes, John rose.  He needed the bathroom and another cup of coffee.   He wandered down the hall and took care of the more pressing business first; then, he started to walk toward the bank of vending machines.  There were a couple of frazzled looking interns or students plunking change into the coffee machine. 

“It’s been underway for a while now.  I had no idea you didn’t know,” the taller one said.

“Spent the night at the girlfriend’s house.  I wasn’t home to get any calls.  _Standstill._  Christ, I can’t believe I’m missing it,” the other replied.

“It’s still going on.  C’mon, there’s a group of us gathered in Conference Room 1B watching on the monitors.  Hurry up and get your shit and let’s go!” 

The duo walked off at a rapid pace, and John swung in wordlessly behind them.  He followed them down the hallway and up one flight of stairs until they came to the conference room, swiping their badges to unlock the door.  John caught it with his foot before it closed, and he slipped in right after, making his way toward the back of the room as soundlessly as he could.  No one was paying any attention to him, anyway.  All eyes were on the monitors.  The interns he’d followed were still near enough for him to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“How far in are they?” the shorter intern asked in a hushed whisper.

“Over twenty minutes,” his friend answered.  “Not much time left.  They haven’t even clipped it yet.”

“Right down to the wire, huh?”

John looked at the monitor that showed a bird’s-eye view of the operating room.  He could see over a dozen scrub-covered bodies encircling a patient swathed in sheets.  Nothing of Dean was visible except the small strip of brain that the doctor was working on, but the angle of the camera prevented John from even seeing that.  Listening to the talk around him gave him no usable information; the discussion was too technical to grasp.  Nevertheless, just looking at the TV made his heart pound in his ears, and he began to feel extremely lightheaded.  This was his son on the table.  This was _Dean_.  The hunter looked around the room, watching the people regard his son with nothing more than pedantic indifference.  There were several hushed discussions going on, a few doctors or students seemed to be involved in a lively debate concerning the cooling procedure.  One student expressed surprise that the patient’s temperature had only been lowered to 15 degrees instead of 10, since the lower body temperature would have allowed the doctors to work for up to an hour before neurological damage began to set in.  Other students were industriously taking notes, their eyes glued to the TV screen.  A few others had their heads together discussing different aspects of the clipping procedure.  John felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin.  The sterile, academic atmosphere had nothing whatsoever to do with his son.  They didn’t even seem aware that this was a living, breathing soul that was being operated upon.  He was getting very close to losing what was left of his composure when the surgeon on the screen straightened up.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” John heard him say as the man bent down and took another look at what he’d been assessing.  He prodded his instrument a little deeper.  John noticed the doctor’s shoulders stoop slightly.  “Damn.  This does not look good.”

The blood drained from John’s head as he watched the doctor look up and shake his head in dismay.

* *

When Dean came to, it felt as though he was in a cocoon of spun sunlight.  His entire being was warmed through.  It reminded the teen of a time, long, long ago, when his dad rented an old house in Michigan for the winter.  Sam had only been about three years old at the time, and it was one of the coldest winters Dean could ever remember.  The ancient heating system blew air through an old grate in the floor of their bedroom, and every night Dean would gather blankets and pillows, making a nest for the two of them right over the vent.  Together they would fall asleep on that old hardwood floor, but under those blankets he’d be warmer and more comfortable than he’d ever been in any crappy motel bed.  What he felt now was even better.  He was buoyed by warm light.  The only other time he’d felt so weightless and contented was when his mother was still alive.  He had a vague memory of her warm arms enfolding him as she hummed old Beatles tunes in his ear, his head resting on her shoulder and his eyes drooping closed. He’d never felt so loved and so…safe.  The warmth he felt now was a close second. 

He opened his eyes, still a toddler in his mother’s arms.  “Mommy?” he murmured.  He floated a few more moments as the memory of his mother’s arms slowly dissipated and his senses returned.  Clearing his throat, he looked about him.  He was being cradled in a blanket of iridescent, golden light.  He couldn’t help but reach out to feel the texture of the material, and as he brushed his fingertips along the sparkling veins, the blanket shimmered and rippled with a downy glow.  He watched each feather become an individual under his touch before melding back into the solid membrane that was surrounding him.  The contact caused his arm to tingle pleasantly.  He looked up and beads of amber light were dripping from the wingtips, falling into his hair and eyes and mouth, delicious and refreshing—like sweat running down an icy bottle of water on a sweltering July day.  As the radiance seeped into him, Dean uncoiled, allowing himself to be fed like a gape-beaked nestling.  Dean felt sleepy yet incredibly rested at the same time.  His clarity of thought became stronger the longer he stayed nestled under the angel’s wing.   

But that’s also when it dawned on him that he was, in fact, _nestled under the angel’s wing_ —in a complete, blissed-out stupor no less.  The comfort and peace he felt was something he’d only ever experienced with members of his family, and if he was being honest, never quite this intensely.  It was intimate, nurturing and loving, and, well…just too weird and wrong, wrong, _wrong_ coming from the angel.  Dean pushed against the wing and sprung away. 

“Dude,” he said to the surprised angel.  “What the hell?”  The teen backed away even though a part of him wanted to just dive right back in no matter how awkward it may seem.  He already felt wobbly and cold, having weaned himself too abruptly.  He wrapped his arms tightly around his middle as he shivered and grew flush with embarrassment.  “Aren’t y’sposed t—t—to b—buy a dude dinner first?” he said, his teeth chattering.  His legs felt like jelly and the angel reached out to steady him.

“I do not understand,” the angel said.  “Why would you require food?   You had weakened, and I was nourishing you.  Your body is extremely damaged, and your soul is unable to operate as it should.  It perceives the physical flaws and is weakened by them.  Did you not take sustenance from my embrace?”

“Well yes,” Dean said and then he faltered.  “I mean…no, dude.  Shh…don’t say that so loud!  God.”  Dean looked around and dithered.  “Look, it was just…it was weird.  OK?  It was p—personal.  Just…personal space, OK?” he said, waving his hand back and forth between them, indicating the perceptible distance that Dean insisted separate them.  “Personal space,” he reiterated.

“I still do not understand,” the angel said as he studied Dean curiously. 

“Forget it, Tinkerbell.  Just…look, thanks for helping me out.   I feel better,” he said, and that was the truth.  Despite the awkwardness of the wing-cuddling, Dean felt much, much better for it, but he sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t need it again. 

“So what’s happening?  How long was I out?”

“How long?” the angel asked, perplexed.  He nodded toward the operating room that was still visible right before them.  Again, the white room with the window on the meadow faded away…until only the angel was left standing by his side.  Together they watched the doctor’s brow furrow with concern.

“This just does not look good at all,” the doctor said bending down for another look. 

One of the other doctors stepped up, looking at the surgery site.  “What’s wrong?”  Apparently no time on earth had passed.  Dean eyed the angel. 

“Boy, you’re good,” Dean admitted.  He gave his attention back to the doctors. 

The surgeon sighed.  “The bleeding was far more extensive than the scans showed.”   He maneuvered in toward the aneurysm, his eyes deep in concentration.  He shook his head.  “There’s significant herniation,” he continued to examine the brain and sighed again.  He looked up.  The entire room was silent as they watched the doctor’s face.   “The brain is coning,” he told them.  The nurse with the pinky-print on her glasses let out a small gasp and her eyes went wide.  Everyone else quietly digested the new information and stood silent and still. 

Dean watched the hushed responses.  “What’s that mean?” he asked.   The angel’s face remained stoic and placid, and Dean didn’t know if that was a good thing or bad.  “Hello?” the young hunter prodded.  

The doctor interrupted his interrogation.  “Come on people,” the surgeon said.  “We still have a job to do and only a few minutes to get it done.” 

The teen swallowed thickly.  “Whatever it is it can’t be very good.  Everyone looks like their puppy got run over.  What’s he talking about.  What’s wrong?”

“You are very ill,” the angel replied, quietly.

“No duh.  I got that part.  What does he mean about hibernation and coning?”

“Herniation,” the angel corrected. 

“Whatever,” Dean waved it away.  “What’s that mean?”

The angel’s glance hadn’t moved from the operating table, but suddenly he turned his mild eyes upon Dean.  “It means you are in a moribund state.” 

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Speak English, dude.  What’s that mean?”

“It means you are very close to death,” the angel told him quietly.     

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	6. He Who Strengthens Me

 

“There’s significant herniation.”  The doctor’s expression was hidden by his mask, but the shake of his head and hunch of his shoulders spelled out his discouragement.  Dr. Metzger looked up.  Both the tension in the operating theater and in the conference room was electric, breathless.  “The brain is coning,” he said, and John could see the occupants of both rooms simultaneously deflate.  Shoulders slumped and heads joined the surgeon’s, shaking in disappointment. 

“Well, that’s that I guess.”  John heard one of the two men he’d followed into the room say quietly. 

“What does that mean?” John asked him loudly.  The man looked at him confused, noticing the hunter for the first time. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the man asked, but John had already moved away, walking toward the monitor as his protective instincts overtook his need to blend in.  There was a surprised, older, distinguished looking doctor staring at him.  John barreled up to him, pointing at the monitor. 

“I said what does that mean?” He demanded with cold desperation.

“Oh god,” he heard a woman whisper loudly behind him.  “I think that’s the father.”

Several more whispers swept through the room, and John soon found himself surrounded by a dozen white-coats trying to usher him from the conference hall.  The moment one of the doctors put a hand on him, a switch flipped in his head, and he morphed from protector to aggressor—from prey to hunter.  A few of the doctors backed off from the menace and threat sparking in his eyes, their hands raised in mollifying surrender.  The hunter’s voice fell half an octave.

John pointed to the television screen again.  “What the hell is he saying?  You tell me what’s happening to my son!”  John seethed.  Several of the younger males jumped in and gripped the hunter by the shoulders, trying to guide him from the room, but John wasn’t having any of it.  His hands knotted into fists.  “Get your damn hands off me!”

“Mr. Winchester!”  A middle-aged woman called to him as she ran through the knot of people, her palms up.  “Mr. Winchester, please.  Calm down.”  John was bristling and breathing like he’d run a marathon.  His adrenaline radiated off of him like a mushroom cloud, and the woman could see how volatile he was.  She turned to the men holding him.  “Stop this,” she said to them.  “Let him go.  Mr. Winchester, please.”  She reached for his hand and pulled him gently.  “Come out into the hallway with me and we can discuss this.”

She escorted him from the room, telling the followers to go back and leave them alone.  Once the door was shut, she looked at John with controlled anger in her eyes.  “You should not have gone in there, Mr. Winchester.  You know that.  Come with me back to the waiting room.  Dr. Metzger will see you as soon as the surgery is over.”  She placed her hand on his arm and moved to walk to the elevator.  John stood firm.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what he was talking about.  Is my son in danger?”

The doctor met his stance and looked him directly in the eye.  “Yes, your son is in danger.  But your outburst is not helping him.  You don’t need me to tell you that his condition is critical and precarious; he wouldn’t be here otherwise.  Please let us do our job, for Dean’s sake,” she added, and this time he moved with her. 

“Tell me, please,” John said as he stopped again.  His eyes and tone were pleading this time, grief and worry overtaking his anger.  “Tell me what the doctor was talking about.”   

The woman sighed.  “Coning…” she said haltingly, and her eyes suddenly shifted away from him.  John could easily read her discomfort and evasiveness.  “ _Coning_ means that the swelling in Dean’s brain is creating pressure on the brainstem.  That’s not an encouraging development.  They may have more difficulty resuscitating your son or it may cause other complications once they do resuscitate him,” she hedged, somewhat. 

“What complications?” John asked forcefully.  The doctor shook her head, refusing to speak further.  “Tell me!” he demanded. 

“Complications that Dr. Metzger will go over with you, Mr. Winchester.  It is not my place to say, and I do not have legal or ethical authority to discuss this matter with you.  No one in that room does,” she said with an air of finality. 

“God damn you!” he bellowed.  “I want you people to tell me what this means.”  John moved in, looming, entering the woman’s personal space, but the doctor was not intimidated. 

“Mr. Winchester, Dean needs you now.  He needs you, and you need to stay calm for _his_ sake.  Please don’t make me call Security.  Be here for your son, now,” her words and posture softened as she spoke.  “Trust me.  I know this is hard to bear.  But I promise you, that team is doing everything in their power to save your son.” 

She walked him to the elevator and entered it with him.  They silently walked back to the waiting area.  John didn’t argue with the woman any longer.  There was nothing more to say.  She wasn’t going to spell it out for him, and she was right about one thing: no amount of screaming or yelling was going to change anything. 

As he approached the waiting room he saw Sam’s head swivel, and the child sprang up.  The boy looked bleary-eyed from sleep or, perhaps, from tears.  He couldn’t tell which.  It was probably both. 

“Dad!  Where have you—” he began and then saw John’s devastated face.  “Dad?  What’s wrong?” he said breathlessly.  The boy’s eyes were filling with panic and tears, fearing the worst.  “Dad?  Tell me!” he nearly shouted.

“Stop Sam,” John warned.  “There’s no news yet.  I was just talking to Dr…” he cut off, looking at the woman, fumbling.

“Dr. Alexander,” she prompted.  “Grace Alexander.”  She turned to Sam.  “The surgery isn’t completed yet.  Your father was just looking for an update.  Dr. Metzger will be out as soon as the surgery is over.”  She looked at John and nodded a little.  “I’ll leave you two alone, now.”

John collapsed into the chair as soon as the doctor turned away.  He bent over his knees, breathing heavily, cradling his head in his hands. 

“I woke up and you were gone.  Where did you go?  Did you find anything out?  What’s wrong, Dad?”  The boy pelted the overwhelmed, overstimulated man.  The child moved close, bending down and in as he tried to get a read on his father’s face.  “Dad?  Is Dean OK?”

“Yes,” John said, looking up, but then he stopped and began massaging his temples.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t know, Sam.  And I’m worried, OK?  Can I be worried?”  He pulled the duffel off the chair and tossed it on the ground.  “Sit down, Sam, and just wait.  There’s nothing we can do but goddamned wait it out,” John said miserably.

“We can do a lot more than wait,” Sam said, refusing to sit.  “I asked the lady at the desk, and she said there is a library not half a mile down the road.  This is Phoenix, Dad.  They’ll have a big Navajo section.  We can—” John cut him off.

“We can what, Sam?” he blasted so loudly that the few people who were around stopped and stared.  He lowered his voice, but not his tone.  “We can do what?”

“Nothing,” Sam spit out, angrily.  “God forbid we do anything that could help Dean.”

John put his head in his hands and tried to tune Sam out.  With all of his heart he wished it _was_ the skinwalker.  He wished he could indulge in the delusion that Sam was clinging to for all the boy was worth.  He wished he hadn’t gone into that conference room or seen the doctor evade his questions.   

“I’m going to die if I have to wait much longer,” Sam sulked. 

John pulled his hands away from his head and looked at the boy sharply.  “Don’t you dare say that, Sam,” he chided.  “I mean it.”  He sat silently for a moment.  “It’ll be all right,” he said finally.

“How do you know that?” Sam asked bitterly.

“Because I know your brother, and so do you,” John said with a hint of a smile.  “He won’t go down without putting up one a hell of a fight.”  He prayed he wasn’t as deluded as Sam.

* *

“Yeah, well, I’m here, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Dean said, looking at the angel defiantly.  “Being close to death isn’t anything for my family.  We live in that state most of the time.  There was this one time about three years ago; my dad took a knock to the head so bad he was in a coma for two weeks,” Dean boasted.  “All the doctors said he wouldn’t make it, but he’s a Winchester, and he wouldn’t give in or quit.  Neither will I.  I’m not leaving my family,” Dean said with finality.  “I don’t care what you say.”

The angel looked at the boy, giving no hint of his emotions, if he had any.  He walked over to the table as the doctors worked, and laid his hand on the green sheets.  Dean noted that his eyes, while still placid and serene, looked rather perplexed.

“There is much damage,” he said.  “I…” he broke off, pondering.  “I am not certain why my Father would have it so.  We went to such lengths to bring you into existence,” he said quietly.

“Huh?” Dean looked at him, confused.  “Me?  What the hell does that mean?”  The angel shook his head slightly, coming out of his contemplation. 

“It is of no consequence.  I shouldn’t question my Father’s decisions,” he said, breaking contact with Dean’s body and turning back to stand and watch. 

“What a load of crap,” Dean huffed out, eyeing him before turning and watching the doctor.  They had finally clipped the aneurysm and were beginning the process of bringing Dean out of Standstill.  The angel looked at Dean, surprised by his angry response. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You should think for yourself at some point,” Dean said.  “Look, I’m not talking about me, either.”  Dean nodded toward his body lying on the table.  “You don’t want to help me, that’s fine.  Whatever.  I can deal.  I’m used to that.  But how can you just sit back and watch innocent people get hurt?  Why would any truly loving father think that’s OK to begin with?  I mean, my dad’s a hard ass—as tough as nails, but he would never sit back and watch anyone, even people he didn’t know, get hurt.  So, why the hell would your dad give you all this training and knowledge and power just to sit by and watch?”

The angel shook his head.  “My Father has not mandated intervention.”

“Did he come right out and tell you that you couldn’t?” Dean asked, and when the angel hesitated he went on.  He circled around the being.  “My dad was the same way, too.  _Do as I tell you, when I tell you, and nothing more!_ ” he impersonated his father’s deep graveled orders.  “But sometimes, dude, you just have to do what you think is best when the shit hits the fan.  At some point you have to take all that training and instruction and make your own choices.”  

“It is unwise to disobey,” the angel countered.

“Unwise?  Yeah, hell…maybe.  But sometimes it’s just necessary, man.  Then you take responsibility and deal with the consequences after you’ve saved the day.  Your dad might surprise you.  He might just realize that you saw something he missed or fixed something he didn’t know was even an issue.”

“My father has created the universe and everything in it.  He does not make mistakes.”

“Huh…” Dean said with an empty laugh.  “Well then I guess it was no mistake to have you come and watch over me and wonder why God would just let me die, then, right?”

The angel looked a little taken aback.  He stood silently watching the activity in the operating room, seemingly lost in thought.  “It does seem strange to me that my Father would have us go to so much trouble to ensure this body’s creation only to have one small artery undo such magnificence and hope.  I don’t understand this,” he confessed sadly. 

“Well, whatever,” Dean said.  “I would never just watch shit like this happen.  It may be God’s plan, but it sure as hell ain’t mine.  There are a lot of people out there who need my help—especially now that I know for a fact that the God-squad isn’t going to be doing anything beyond making the Jiffy-pop for the big show.  You watch all you want, Ebert.  I’m going to help people.  I have a job to do.  And I’m not leaving Sammy.  No way,” he said emphatically.  “It’s been swell, but I’m going back now.  I have to wake up and get better.  Lives depend on me.”  Dean walked up to the table and closed his eyes, concentrating.  When nothing happened, he opened his eyes and bent in a little closer to the table.  He cleared his throat, squeezed his eyes shut and tried again, straining.

“I don’t think your body will be able to house your spirit again, Dean,” the angel informed him.  “There is too much damage.”

Dean cracked an eye and searched the angel’s beautiful face.  “Says you.  Why don’t you just go dust your harp or something,” Dean said, but he was breathing heavy from his effort to return to his body.  “I have to get back,” he said.  He watched as the doctor worked, overhearing them discuss a problem with his heart.  After they had heated the body, his heart had apparently started but had gone directly into V-fib.  Dean watched as the doctor placed paddles on his chest and everyone around the table stepped back.  “Whoa!”  The boy’s body lurched up from the electricity passing through it, and Dean also jolted as well.  However, he still remained outside of his body, unable to connect completely with it.  He shook his head, trying to clear it after the shock.  “Come on,” he urged the doctors.  “Please, you have to get me back,” he begged them.  Of course no one paid any attention.  The flurry of activity became more intense around the body.  “You can do it,” he encouraged them.  The doctor defibrillated the body again and Dean bucked along with it.  He gasped out, breathing hard. 

“Holy crap!” he said, his eyes wide with pain and fear.  “Please,” he cried out again, as they put the paddles on him for the third time.  He fell to his knees.  “C’mon…c’mon!”  He willed it to work. 

The angel stood still as the doctors worked.  His eyes closed briefly in concentration or perhaps in prayer, but Dean was too focused on his body to notice.  The angel finally opened his eyes and moved in just behind the boy.  With a gentle thrust, the angel pushed the teen toward his body.  Dean felt the sudden gravitational pull, and in a mind-numbing reverse experience of his initial journey, he was sucked back into himself.  As he traveled this time, though, he felt as if he was being stripped away or unmade.  All knowledge of his life and his very sense of self was lost in a starburst of pain in his head.

The angel remained standing over the operating table as Dean’s heart was shocked again.  This time, the heart achieved its normal rhythm, and the operating room became a beehive of activity, swarming with people trying to stabilize the body.  In the midst of it all, the angel remained dead-calm, watching intently. 

“I don’t know how long you’ll be able to stay, Dean Winchester,” he said, looking down on the teen.  “But I have done the least of what I could.  Most likely it was more than I should have, as I am certain my brothers and sisters will tell me.  If my Father perceives I have done wrong, I will accept the consequences,” he added more for himself than anything else.  “I am…” he said, looking confused and uncertain.  “I am sorry that I cannot do more.”

The angel looked over his shoulder and then back.  “I dare not do more,” he confessed. 

* *

Several hours passed before John and Sam were approached and taken to a small consultation room.  The doctor, they were told, would be in shortly to talk with them.  It was another twenty-five minutes according to John’s watch before Dr. Metzger arrived.  John started in before the door had been completely shut. 

“How is he?” he asked.

Dr. Metzger motioned to some chairs.  “Please, Mr. Winchester, have a seat,” he offered.

“I don’t want a goddamned seat.  I want someone to tell me what’s happening to my son.  Did you get the aneurysm?  Is he going to be OK?”

The doctor crossed his arms and stood facing John.  “We did clip the aneurysm,” he said.  Sam’s face lit up with hope.

“So it’s gone?  The aneurysm is gone now?” the child asked.  The doctor hesitated and looked from Sam to John. 

“The aneurysm was clipped, and we were able to successfully bring Dean out of Standstill.  However, when we had him open we discovered that there was a lot more bleeding than we had anticipated.”

“But he’s going to get better, right?  Strokes are bad but people get better from them all the time, and my brother is the most stubborn person in the world.  He’ll get better in, like, a tenth of the time you think it will take.  You wait and see,” Sam said with pride.  John placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and also looked at the doctor. 

“People do recover from strokes sometimes, but this one was more severe than most.  The bleeding caused a lot of swelling.”

“You said his brain was coning.  What does that mean?  Are we looking at a longer recovery time?  What?” John cut to the chase.  The doctor looked a little mystified. 

“I’m sorry, am I missing something?” the surgeon asked.  “Who said that?”

“You did, during the surgery,” John said.  Dr. Metzger cocked his head, still confused.  John cleared his throat and confessed.  “Look, I know I shouldn’t have, and I’m sure your colleagues will tell you all about it, but I went into the room where they were watching the surgery on the monitors.”  Sam looked at his dad, surprised.  “I heard you say that his brain was coning.  One of the doctors told me that it meant his brain was swelling, but she wouldn’t say anything beyond that.”

The doctor’s eyebrows tented in surprise.  “I’m sorry you had to hear that.  I’ll follow up with my people to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”  John waved his hand dismissively. 

“Spare me and them the lecture.  I don’t care about your protocol.  Just tell me what is going on and what we can expect for Dean’s recovery.”

“Coning means that the swelling is creating severe pressure on the brainstem.”

John swirled his finger in the _move-it-along_ , sign.  “Spell it out, Doc.  What’s it mean.”

The doctor looked at John a moment and cleared his throat.  “The brainstem is responsible for the body’s basic functions: cardiovascular and respiratory control, consciousness—awareness.  This has all been irrevocably compromised.  We were able to restart his heart, but Dean is no longer breathing on his own.  The body is exhibiting decerebrate rigidity, though this is likely due to the ventilator, since his last EEG showed no measurable brain activity.  There has been no response to pain; his pupils are fixed and dilated.  He’s in a profound coma.  I’m so very sorry,” he said gently.  “We did everything we could, but the damage had already been done before he arrived.  Had the doctors in Provo known the extent of the bleeding, I wouldn’t have been called in.” 

“My dad hit his head once real bad, and he was in a coma.  He woke up,” Sam said.  “Dean will, too, won’t he?”

The doctor looked at John, showing his discomfort that the boy was even there.  John just gripped Sam’s shoulder tightly and looked at the doctor expectantly along with his son. 

“This is not a coma from a severe concussion or skull fracture.  Per the State of Arizona’s requirements for confirming brain-death, we will wait twenty-four hours and perform a second EEG and another round of response tests.  But I have very little doubt at this point.  Once we’ve done that, you will need to give consent for us to remove him from life-support.  I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester.  I truly am.”  John shook his head, refusing to hear the doctor. 

“What other treatments are there?  There has to be something else,” the hunter said.

“No, you are not hearing me.  This is it.  I’m sorry.  I know it is extremely difficult, but Dean is already gone.  The machines are keeping his body here at this point.”

Sam stiffened and he sucked in some air.  He pulled away from John and stood defiantly in front of the doctor.  “You’re lying.  My brother _is_ here.  I’d know if he was gone, and he wouldn’t leave us.  He’s not gone!  He’s not!”   The child began to shout, causing John to reach out and grab him back.  Sam fought his father’s grip on him. 

“That’s enough, Sam,” he said. 

“No it’s not, Dad!  He’s not gone.  I know he isn’t.  He’s still here, and he can get better.   We can make him better!  Don’t let them take Dean off the machines until we talk to Uncle Bobby and Jefferson.”  John adjusted his grip on him and shook. 

“Stop this, Sam,” he hugged the boy to him desperately.  Sam still pushed away. 

“Tell the doctor he’s wrong!”  The boy’s voice cracked on the last word.  John stroked Sam’s head, as the hunter’s eyes filled with tears.  He looked to the doctor for final confirmation, and the doctor slowly shook his head _no_. 

“We did everything that we could, but there is nothing else we can do for him.  You can spend the evening with him and prepare yourselves.  In the morning they’ll be in to do the EEG.  Then we’ll go from there.”  The doctor’s posture changed, indicating that the discussion was at an end.  John went to say something, but the surgeon opened the door.  He beckoned a nurse or student over.  “Hannah, will you take Mr. Winchester and Sam up to see Dean?”  He turned back to John.  “I’m very sorry,” he said again, and with a nod to Hannah, he slipped quickly from the room.

The journey to see Dean was surreal, and John recognized almost nothing before him.  The hallways and corridors tunneled oppressively; even the squeak of their shoes on the floor was alien and out of place.  Sam said nothing, or if he did speak it never registered past the ringing in John’s hears.  The hunter’s knees were trembling as they exited an elevator.  The woman leading them opened a set of doors and led them down one more corridor until they came to the ICU. 

“This way,” Hannah said, pointing.  She opened the glass door and Dean was directly ahead of them. 

John was immediately struck by how quiet it was.  He had grown so accustomed to the constant beat, click and ping of extreme measures, that their absence now was very telling.  This, more than any words the doctor could have said, brought home the inconceivable truth to John.  The doctors had given up on his child.  There was the perpetual gasp of the ventilator and the quiet hum of the heart monitor, but that was it.  Dean had one bag of IV fluids running into his arm and an oximeter on his finger.  All the other gadgetry that had been attached to his son had been removed.  The hunter fixated upon the figure of his son, too thin—too still—his head bound in a turban of white bandages.  John vaguely heard someone say something, but no words registered, and he gave it no more thought after that.  He walked closer to the bed. 

Dean’s eyes were completely closed.  His hands lay at his sides bent back at an odd angle, his fingers curled into strange, unnaturally tight fists.  John picked one up and tried to gently uncurl the fingers, but they were stiff and unyielding.  It was as though Dean’s body was folding in on itself, closing down.  John thought he heard a couple more sounds that might have been voices speaking.  He could no longer tell, and he didn’t care to listen.  The hunter traced a vein on Dean’s temple, starkly blue against his pale skin.  John’s finger lightly followed the flow of the vein until it was lost beneath the mounds of gauze swathing Dean’s head.   He turned back and dabbed at the moisture seeping from his son’s eyes. 

“Hey Champ,” he murmured.  “We’re here, buddy.”  John’s chin quivered as he stoically fussed a few more seconds with Dean’s pinched hands, trying to get them to relax, but the man suddenly and violently lost the battle both with the hands and with his own emotions.  He let his head fall onto Dean’s chest and he wept as he had never wept before.  The world stopped as he gasped and grunted and choked against his child’s body with intimate abandon as though he and Dean were the only ones in the room.  “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he gulped out.  “I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

Minutes passed before he finally recovered his senses; then, he just let his head rest on Dean’s chest, feeling the surge of air that the vent was forcing in and out, listening to the sound of his son’s heartbeat.

At last he tilted up and away, his face smeared with tears and saliva.  He looked around vacantly, trying to find his bearings, wondering how long he’d been lost in his grief.  The few nurses nearby were keeping their eyes compassionately averted.  John wiped his face and turned to Sam.  He knew the boy was as bad off as he was—or worse.  However, Sam was nowhere to be seen. 

“Have you seen my son?” he asked one of the nurses.  “My other son,” he specified.  The woman came over to him quietly.

“He tried to tell you when you were—” she hesitated.  “Indisposed,” she whispered the word as though he would actually give two shits about his dignity at this point.  “He said that he needed some air and that he’d be back in a little while.  I’m so sorry Mr. Winchester.  I don’t think he went very far.”

Christ.  This was more than he could take.  He turned and grabbed the chair, pulling it closer.  He figured Sam probably had the presence of mind not to fall apart in front of people like he’d just done.  He’d be back.  It was too hard to deal with his personal grief right now let alone Sam’s.  He wouldn’t waste what little time he had left with Dean trying to hunt Sam down if he didn’t want to be found.  The kid was probably calling Bobby.  It didn’t matter anymore.  The boy would either run out of quarters or hunters to call and find his way back to the room.  John sat and took one of Dean’s fists in his own, and he clung to it numbly as his thoughts consumed him.  He was struck again by how hushed everything was.  Even with the ventilator softly swishing away, it was so damn quiet.  He could not comprehend how such a monumental and thunderous moment could ever pass so mutely. 

And so he lost himself to memories while he stroked Dean’s hand and arm.  The limb was still soft with youth; yet, the hands showed the beginnings of calluses—Dean’s hands, like the rest of him, would remain forever poised on the cusp of manhood.  And what a fine man he would become—would have become.  John’s grief overtook him again, and he succumbed to it wholeheartedly.  He sat, stone-eyed and fractured as he thought of all the days of Dean’s life, thought about his laugh and his voice, his unquenchable appetite for life.  He thought about what an incredible hunter he would have made—better than him, better than Sam.  He thought about the boy’s talent for weapons, his aptitude for the hunt, his bravery, his loyalty and his eagerness to please.  Above all, John thought about Dean’s overwhelming love for his brother and his desire to help others—motives far more pure, when he honestly compared them to his own. 

More than that, though, there had been _the light_ —the fire in that boy—the spark so bright that it scared him at times.  Dean was far, far more than life normally allowed.  He was beyond the norm; he was tangibly and profoundly special in a way that humbled his father.  There could be no Heaven—no God—no true goodness in the universe if it could so ruthlessly strike Dean down on the verge of such breathtaking magnificence.  If God existed, John swore to himself, he would be no less thorough and no less vengeful in his hunt for Him than he had been in his hunt for the creature that had pinned his wife to the ceiling.

His thoughts were interrupted by movement close to the bed.  He looked up expecting to see Sam, but it was a nurse he had not seen before.  Coming back to himself slowly, he looked at his watch and saw that it was now after 7:00pm.  A new shift of nurses had replaced the old, and with a jolt he realized that not only had he sat for hours without having been aware in the slightest but that Sam had not returned. 

He turned to Dean and bent in close.  “You are so much better at this than I am,” he admitted.  “I don’t know how to help him.  But I have to go find him, Sport.  I’ll be back though, I promise.”  Reaching up, he placed a kiss on Dean’s warm forehead.

“Goddammit Sam,” he said bitterly as he strode from the ICU.

* *

This time there was no tunnel—or if there was, Dean had not been aware when he’d gone through it.  He was definitely aware of the after-effects, though.  It felt as though he was wallowing in a lake of cooling tar, and his thoughts were just as slow and viscous.  After a long struggle, he found himself face-down on the floor, trying to lever himself up onto his hands and knees, but his body was too heavy or his limbs were too weak.  He released an exhausted cry as he lost what little strength he had left and fell back onto his stomach, his cheek pressed against what felt to be a slab of stone.  It was gravestone cold.  Surely his father would not have buried him, he thought.  A hunter’s salt-and-burn funeral would have been in the offing for him, so why was he laid out on granite?

“Do not try to move, Dean.  I will aid you.”  It was the voice of the angel.  Dean didn’t know how long he had been away or what exactly had happened, but he was very glad to be back and very relieved that the angel was there.   He didn’t remember much beyond roaming through a twisted maze of darkness, an endless warren filled with black crannies that he’d gotten stuck in.  No matter how hard he’d tried he had been unable to find his way out and into the light.  At some point, he’d actually let go and capitulated to the dark, unable to fight it, unable to even recall that it should be fought.  He’d simply lost himself and had been unaware that there was anything beyond oblivion until he was face down with the angel hovering nearby. 

But there were slow thoughts now as well as discomfort and fear.  He had a headache that couldn’t seem to make up its mind—sharp and dull, shallow and deep—it was all those things and more.   He could neither open his eyes nor move his limbs.  He felt the angel’s wings surround him again, and he immediately unfolded and let the light and warmth revive him.  The pain eased until it was manageable and then eased even further until it was barely noticeable.  Dean drank in more angel-light, and his thoughts untangled and his mind stilled.  After that, he simply rested, drifting for a moment in the comfort and warmth.   At last he opened his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said with complete sincerity.  “I really appreciate it.” 

The angel nodded and set him down, moving away toward the open window.  The wheat field was gone, replaced by the moon shimmering on a roiling ocean.  He looked at the being and was surprised to see that the angel had also taken on the silver tones of the moon.  His wings were now black with flecks of silver light floating off and dripping from them, like dust motes caught in the beam of a flashlight.  The feathers undulated along with the foamy waves of the sea.  Dean thought they had looked beautiful in the light of the sun, but they were even more striking under the moonlight.  Dean swallowed and averted his eyes.  Clearing his throat, he looked out at the ocean and the angel came and joined him. 

“How’d the surgery go?” he asked, looking up at the being.  The angel’s face was clear and calm, but either Dean was actually getting to know him, or the angel’s face was starting to exhibit small tells, because his eyes were concerned and worried.  “Not too well, I take it?”  Dean sighed and looked at the sea. 

“Your brain has suffered much damage,” the angel said.  “I still do not understand why it has to be.”  His wide eyes searched the ocean as well, looking for answers he could not find.

“I guess you haven’t been watching my family all that long, then.  Just our shitty luck,” Dean quipped, but then he turned to the angel.  “It was too dark in there.  I wasn’t me.  How can I make it work?  If I could just be me, I’d do whatever it took for as long as I had to in order to get better.  I’d kick the aneurysm’s ass.  But I don’t know who I am or even _that_ I am when I’m inside there,” he gestured behind him, and, turning, he could see the ICU open up.  He walked over to his body lying in the bed.   The angel joined him.

“The brain along with the heart, are organs through which the soul manipulates and controls the body,” the angel explained.  “When one of those organs has been compromised the soul is unable to interact properly with the world.”

“So my brain is the engine and my heart is the steering wheel?” he asked. 

The angel thought a moment.  “I am not entirely familiar with human modes of transportation, but I believe that is a useful analogy,” the angel conceded.

“So my engine is blown,” Dean commented.  “And the doctors can’t fix it?”

“No, they can’t.”  The angel turned away and went back to the window.  If Dean didn’t know any better he’d have thought that the angel was pissed off. 

Dean followed him.  “Well I ain’t leavin’,” he said adamantly.  “My family needs me.  Maybe I was too impatient last time.  If I can just stay in it long enough, I might be able to find my way up and out.”

The being shook his head, distraught.  “Why would my father go to such trouble to bring you into existence only to let one small artery break the whole thing?” he spoke his thoughts aloud.

“Don’t look at me,” Dean said.  “It’s jacked.  But I don’t know why God allows half the stuff he does.  Why create a world only to let evil do as it pleases there?  If God really cared, he’d do something about it.”

“That’s just it,” the angel said passionately.  “He does care and He _is_ doing something about it.  He brought people like you into the world to do His will, so I am perplexed.  I do not see the balance in this.”

“Well, didn’t he bring you into the world, too?  How do you even know what he wants?  Does he tell you every little last thing to do?”  Dean asked.

“Revelation does not unfold in that manner,” he conceded.  “There are not many angels who have been in our Father’s presence.  His will is revealed only to a few, and it is they who have sway over our actions.  Still, in this case, my directive makes no sense, not when so much is riding on it.”

“What the hell, dude?” Dean looked at the angel.  “What’s so important about me?  My dad doesn’t even trust me to drive the car yet.  How can I have any importance to angels?”

The wings fluttered reflexively, and the angel folded them in on himself.  “I have over spoken in my anxiety,” the angel cautioned.  “Don’t dwell on my words.  My uncertainty is a weakness.  I must submit myself to my Father’s will.”  The angel gave a small, convincing nod to himself.      

“If I had done that, my dad would be dead right now,” Dean snorted.  “Like I said before, sometimes you have to do what’s right not just what you were told.”  The teen stammered as the angel turned his gaze upon him.  “I—I mean, it’s just that dads don’t know everything.  They try and protect you, sure.   But shit happens, you know?  And that’s when you have to do what you think is best.”

“Perhaps,” the angel said.  “But my Father _does_ know everything, and yet here I am trying to discern His true intent.  It is perple—” he began to say, but the air started the thrum and crackle with electricity. 

Dean looked around him and noticed that every object had begun to glow and pulse.  There was a pressure to the sound, a stridency that caused Dean to wince and the ground trembled. 

“What the—”   He was unable to finish his thought.  The shrill noise became too overwhelming and he dropped to the floor.  “Naarrrhgh!”  He clutched his ears in pain.  The light was now blinding.  Finally, the angel sprang to life.

“Dean Winchester,” he shouted.  “Come to me, now.  Hurry!”  Dean scrambled to his feet as the angel swept him up and covered him with his wing.  The light and sound was just barely tolerable where he was hidden under the pinion, but the sense of dread continued to grow.  The effect was much the same as when he’d first seen the angel, but this was even more dreadful.  His entire body vibrated and trembled with an awe that unnerved him.  He shut his eyes against the light, clinging to the wing, hoping it was enough to keep him in one piece.   The angel gripped him tight, the wing folding over him protectively.  Dean heard a strange whooshing ruffle and felt a surge of power as the new-comer’s wings stretched and then shuttered.

“My brother,” he heard a new voice say.  Despite the terrifying power it contained, the voice had a higher cant than his angel’s had.  “I’ve come to check on the vessel.”

Dean could feel that his angel’s posture shifted into a more subdued, nearly submissive stance.  “The artery did not hold,” the angel reported.  “There was a breach, and his brain has been damaged beyond the doctors’ ability to mend.  Shall we not now step in and ensure his survival?” the angel suggested, rather hopefully, Dean noticed.

“Why would we do such a thing?” the other voice said.  “If the vessel is malfunctioning, it is wiser to make a new one.  Michael will not tolerate such weakness in his vessel.  No, my brother.  Better to be done with it and construct a more durable vessel.”

The angel holding Dean shifted.  “But it is such an insignificant, anomalous weakness.  It would require no effort on our part to correct.  And even in the unlikely event that the weakness persisted, Michael’s very presence would completely counteract such a small defect when the time came.  Why would we allow this to stand in our way?”

“Because the fate of the world rests upon the fortitude and stability of the vessel,” the voice said.  Dean assumed it was another angel.  “You know that as well as I that the vessel needs to be perfect, and this…” he stopped and Dean felt the creature move back toward where he and the angel had been looking at his body a moment ago.  “This is a rotting piece of meat,” he said dismissively.  “Michael doesn’t want a fixer-upper.  The brain is all but destroyed now.  There is no way the soul will be able to—”  The angel cut himself off.  Dean heard a violent ruffle of feathers.  “Where is he, my brother?  The soul has fled.  It is not in the body.  Have you removed it?”

Dean was irritated.  He hated being referred to as a _vessel_ , whatever the hell that meant, but he really didn’t appreciate being called a piece of meat.  Yeah, it was true that he often didn’t think too much of himself, but he didn’t need anyone else, least of all some dick angel, putting him down.  He sprang from under the angel’s wing, but he immediately regretted it.  The light and power were too great for him to withstand. 

“Ffffuuuhhhggg,” he blatted out.  His forehead hit the floor and he shook uncontrollably. “P—put sssome mud on that n—nose, Rudolph.  You’re k—killing me here,” he blurted out.

There were a few ear splintering noises coming from both angels, and wings beat the air furiously.  After a moment the power in the room subsided, and Dean was finally able to venture a glance at the other angel. 

Not that Dean had much experience with angels, but he was struck by how different this one looked.  Its form was definitely closer to that of a creature than a human.  The face was bestial, vaguely feline.  The wings were thinner than his angel’s, but instead of two there were six terrible wings.  The feathers were unruly and pointed wildly in different directions.  They were more chaotic and unstructured, and they beat the air independently in forceful, clamorous strokes.

“Hey,” Dean said as he slowly rose.  “Dude…six wings,” he whistled.  “That’s pretty cool…for an angel,” he added.

“I’m a seraph,” the angel said, displaying his wings again, the tips curled and tilted like ailerons of sharp, painful light.  Dean shook with dread again.  The teen couldn’t speak.  The seraph turned to the angel.  “What were you thinking, my brother?” he berated.   “Have you any idea how dangerous it is to remove a soul from a living body?”

“I didn’t remove it,” the angel insisted.  “It was spontaneously ejected due to the trauma.  And I have been keeping vigil over the body, spiriting away any parasites that came close.  I would not let anything happen to either the soul or body,” he said curtly. 

The seraph approached, and Dean instinctively moved back toward the angel’s wings.  He was not above diving under them if the freaky thing came too close.  He felt the seraph’s eyes sweep over him.

“You’ve been succoring him?  Feeding him?” the creature accused the angel.

“He was in need, my brother,” the angel defended himself.  “Would you have me just sit idle while his soul thirsts?”

The seraph’s wings twitched spastically.  “You were instructed to watch only and report the outcome,” he snapped. 

“Why?” the angel asked with heat.  “Why would our Father just have us sit by and watch when we could so easily bolster the vessel?”

“You’re walking a dangerous road, brother,” the seraph said quietly, but with no less power to his voice.  Dean moved even closer to the wings, and the angel must have perceived his fear because he reached out and gripped his shoulders steadying him, protecting him.  The seraph glared at the angel without answering. 

“It’s a simple question, chuckles,” Dean piped up, unwilling to let the angel take the heat for helping him.  “What’s the point of watching people go through hell?  You could do so much good in the world, but you just sit on your asses and watch, more interested in fairytale snakes and apples than in people who are _dying_.”

The seraph looked at Dean as though he were a bug.  He turned to the angel, knitting his fingers together in steepled prayer.  “I see where your new attitude comes from,” he scoffed.  “It is very unbecoming.  Enough of this.  I knew they should never have sent you for this task.  You’ve always been odd and feckless.”  The seraph shook his head and looked down on the angel.  “Wasn’t it you who stood for over one hundred years just watching the tide roll in and out of Deception Pass?  You are foolishly naïve in the ways of these apes.  They are manipulative creatures, constantly trying to get others to bend to their whims.  You’ve spent too much time with the flowers and the rocks, my friend.  Time has passed you by.  You do not know what humans are like these days.”

“Perhaps you are right,” the angel said passionately.  “And yet despite my unfamiliarity, I notice very little of import has changed in all these millennia: the salt in their tears, the color of their blood and the way they will protect the ones they love at almost any cost to themselves.  They may dance, sing, and travel about the earth differently than they once did, but their basic needs remain the same.  Their torments are no less painful than they were for those people long ago on whose behalf we so eagerly intervened.  Our Father creates nothing without worth, and yet you are willing to discard something that He consciously, with forethought, created in especial.  You talk about stability and fortitude of the vessel and yet you overlook the most important component.”  The angel put his hands on Dean’s shoulders again and moved the boy in front of him, displaying the teen to the seraph.  “Look at him.  Tell me you do not see how he outshines the sun.  How many souls have you seen as bright?  Does it not take your breath away?  Isn’t preserving _this_ more important than one weak artery?  Tell me, brother, why should we not aid him?”  The seraph simply snorted at him.

“What a bleeding heart!” he hammered, looking heavenward.  “You are being distracted by a little extra sparkle coming from a human.  A _human_!” he hooted.  “You should not have been sent.  He is obviously corrupting you.”

“Why, then, was I sent?” the angel persisted.  “If what you say is true, why would our Father have sent me?”

The seraph folded two of his wings in front of him angrily.  “It wasn’t my doing, trust me.  I wanted to send someone who’s spent much more time studying humans, like Uriel.  But no, the _gardener_ had to have his way in this matter.  Joshua insisted that you be sent on this errand, and even Michael and Raphael are unwilling to thwart him.  Joshua said our Father spoke your name and requested you and no other.”  The seraph moved closer to the angel, and even with his power subdued, Dean began to quake from the proximity.  He dove under the cover of the angel’s wing. 

“Then this is my responsibility,” the angel said.  “I will make sure our Father’s will is carried out.”

“See to it, brother,” the seraph sniped.  “If ever you want to gain His favor, you better learn to obey His commands in thought _and_ in deed.  Don’t waste your time on this broken thing,” he said with a tilt of his head toward Dean.  “We will make another vessel—preferably one with a better attitude—one who is less apt to incite such willful disobedience.  Better to spend another hundred years setting up a perfect pair of vessels than to force Michael to depend on faulty equipment.”  The seraph eyed up the angel.  “Put him back and let nature take its course.  This is already finished.  You know that.  Do not linger.”  The seraph’s strange face split in a Cheshire grin.  “Besides,” he took a deep, mocking sniff.  “I smell a Reaper.”  With a slight sound of ruffled feathers, the oppression in the room was gone along with the seraph.   

Dean blinked and breathed in the light of the wings he was partially wrapped in.  Both he and the angel looked over to where the seraph had nodded.  Dean saw a frightening blue-green figure in the corner.  It was not far away, hovering.  Its tattered robes swept along the floor as it watched over Dean’s body lying in the hospital bed.  The angular, specter-like face showed no emotion. 

“Well that can’t be good,” Dean said bleakly.

**_To Be Continued…_ **

  


	7. Yea, Though I Walk Through the Valley

 

“Wh—what is that thing?” Dean asked in a small, frightened voice.  The spectral hag silently hovered in the corner of the hospital room, intently watching Dean’s body where it lay in the bed.  Her hair was hoary and tangled, and the shredded tatters of her shroud wafted and billowed like kelp in a current.  The ends swept the floor as she floated above.   

The angel closed his eyes a moment, engaged in some internal struggle perhaps.  He looked unhappy to see the apparition, and his wings tensed, feathers twitching erratically.  Dean actually felt concerned for him.  He reached out and set a hand on the angel’s shoulder.

“Hey, you OK, man?” he asked. 

The angel’s eyes startled open at the touch, and he gave Dean a staid nod of his head.  The angel turned toward the creature in the corner.  “Yes,” he assured the teen; although Dean thought he sounded distracted and uncertain.  “She is a reaper.  Do not speak to her.  She will not harm you.”

“A reaper?” Dean huffed out incredulously.  “As in the _Grim_ -freakin’- _Reaper_?”

“After a fashion, yes,” the angel said.  “In truth, there are many reapers.  She is but one of them.”

“She’s here for me?”  Dean asked.  “And you expect me to go with that thing?  Are you nuts?  No way.  I’m staying right here.  I’m not going anywhere with h— _whoa_!” he blew out a breath, his eyebrows pinching as he looked back toward the reaper again.  The wraith-like figure had disappeared.  There was only a short, trim, black-haired girl, about fifteen or sixteen years old, standing calmly in the corner of the room.  “Uh…” Dean dithered.  “Who’s _she_?” 

The girl stared at him with moist, soulful eyes and gave him a Mona-Lisa smile.  She nodded and began to walk toward them.  Dean could suddenly feel the temperature in the room plummet as she drew near.  His breath crystalized, steaming out as a white vapor, and he wrapped his arms around him.  Goosebumps raised on the back of his neck.  The angel moved quickly in between the two, holding up his hand to stop the girl’s advance.  His wings extended fully from wall to wall.  Lightning sprang from their tips.  Dean winced from the thunder and power emanating from them.   

“Stay where you are,” the angel warned her.  She hoisted an eyebrow at him, regarding the angel with silent reproach.  “You are not needed here, yet.  Be gone!” he demanded. 

The girl folded her arms, shaking her head.  “I have a job to do,” she said.  “I’ll do it whether you fight me or not.”

“My Father has not yet revealed the boy’s fate to me,” the angel said with a booming voice.  The girl continued to study him with cool dispassion.

“No?” she asked.  She clasped her hands behind her back, threading her fingers together.  “Well, _my_ father has,” she said.  “And I will be back for him.”

“Her dad?  Who’s her dad, dude?” Dean shivered as he spoke through the side of his mouth, staring at the girl.  He looked at the angel when he didn’t reply.  “Hey, who’s her dad?” he asked again, blowing on his hands to warm them up.

“Your father cannot claim someone that God has chosen for a special destiny.  Have you not read the prophecies?” the angel responded to the girl. 

“I have, cousin,” she said, looking past the angel to where Dean was shifting from foot to foot to keep his circulation going.  “But I’ll do what must be done.  Time is running out.  Would you prefer that he be stuck here like this?”  She looked around the room and then back at Dean, assessing him with a keen eye.  “His spirit is already fading, and he’ll only continue to weaken.  He’s going to have to move on when the time comes.  Don’t encourage him to stay.  He deserves better than that, and you know it.”

“I will look after my charge,” the angel said, his courtesy short and stiff.  “You are not welcome here until his death is assured.”

“That won’t be long,” she said gently.  “I’ll be back.”

The young woman evaporated right before Dean’s eyes, leaving a trail of coiling, bile-colored mist in her wake. 

“Holy crap,” Dean said, his teeth rattling like dry bones.  “How can such a hot chick be so cold?  And I mean that literally,” the teen chattered out, shuddering and jogging in an attempt to warm up.  “I’m not going anywhere with her,” he said resolutely.  “There’s no way I’m leaving my family.  No way.  And what the hell is all this _vessel_ , _destiny, and prophecy_ crap?  I’m not deaf, you know.  This ain’t a Shakespearean play, no matter how much you make it sound like one; and by the way, you might want to ease up on the poetry, dude.  _Be gone!  My Father has not yet revealed his fate…?_   Are you kidding me?  How’s about you wing yourself on into the 20th Century?  Hell, I’d even settle for the 19th at the rate you’re going.”  The angel tilted his head and frowned, confused. 

Dean coughed and felt a little awkward.  “I just mean—you know—you kind of sound like one of those old fashioned authors.  You don’t need all the _thees_ and _thous_.”  The angel still looked mystified.  Dean rolled his eyes.  “Whatever, Beethoven,” he smirked dismissively.  The angel cocked his head again and raised a brow.  He went to say something and then apparently changed his mind.  “Anyway,” Dean went on.  “This _vessel_ thing you’re planning—it isn’t gonna happen, either.  I’m not a vessel or whatever you think I am.  I’m here for my family.  I’m here for Sammy.”  The angel studied Dean quietly.   The teen brushed past him, wandering over to the hospital bed.  He felt wobbly without the angel standing near him as he looked around, a little bewildered.  “Where are my dad and brother, anyway?” he asked.  “Why aren’t they here?” 

The angel looked at the body in the bed, his eyes going soft and sad.  “They are…” he said, trailing off.

“They are what?” Dean asked impatiently.

“They are coming to terms,” the angel replied. 

* *

John had gone from irritated to concerned to frantic.  The boy was nowhere to be found.  He’d not been at any of the payphones, and when John checked the chapel, it had been empty.  The hunter scrubbed his face with his hands and kneaded the back of his neck.  Grief and exhaustion were addling his senses.  He tried to think it through.  The kid was not going to leave his brother.  He was off trying to save him.  John had no doubt about that.  But where would he be at 7:30pm?  Sam had no transportation.  They had been through Phoenix many times over the years, but they’d never hunted here, so Sam wouldn’t have learned the layout of the city.  With a pang, John suddenly remembered him talking about a nearby library.

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” he scuffed out through gritted teeth.  He found the nearest employee and was told that the Burton Barr Central Library was only about ten blocks away.  He got the directions and ran full out, entering the building in a bluster, sweat and two days’ worth of grime radiating off of him. 

The librarian was busy helping another patron, but John pushed forward, leaning in impatiently.  “Where is your Navajo folklore section?” he demanded.  The flustered librarian pointed out an area to her left and John was off and running again, despite the woman’s hushed protests.  John trotted down the main walkway, checking every offshoot.  With a huge sigh of relief and a fresh surge of anger, he saw the mop-head he was looking for. 

Sam was crouched on the floor, at least ten different books opened and haphazardly strewn around him.  The kid was engrossed in one large volume and didn’t hear John’s approach.  He let out a frightened squawk as John pulled him up off the floor by the back of his collar. 

“Dad!” he yelped, surprised and frantic.  Seeing the hunter, though, the boy seized his opportunity.  “Look!” he tried to break the hold his father had on him.  “I found something.”

“Let’s go, Sam…” John said trying to hold on, but the child shimmied out of his father’s grip and bent down, snatching up a large volume. 

“Did you know that skinwalkers can curse people and cause them to be sick?”  He hefted the book up at his father.  “Look!  Please, Dad, you’ve got to listen to me.”

John heaved out a devastated sigh, took the book and without looking at it, he closed it and set it on the ground.  He squatted down until he was eye-level with his son.

“Why are you doing this, Sam?”

Sam looked at his father as though he was insane.  He coughed out a breath.  “Dad, because if the skinwalker hurt Dean we gotta—”

John put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.  “Why are you doing this, son?”

Sam looked flustered, frustrated.  He barreled on.  “Dad, all it takes is any little article of clothing, or skin, or even saliva and the skinwalker can get to you.  If the skinwalker hurt his hand, then maybe…”  He went to bend down and retrieve the book his father had discarded, but the hunter pushed the book out of his reach.  Sam gasped out, pulling away, diving for the book desperately.

“A dead skinwalker cannot curse someone, Sam.”  John held the struggling boy firm.  “You’re not thinking this through, and you’re not answering my question.  Stop moving and look at me.  Why are you doing this?”

Sam shook his head.  “No Dad, what if the skinwalker cast the curse _before_ it was killed?”

“Answer my question, dammit.  Forget the skinwalker.  Why are you doing this?”

Sam backed away, angry, pulling his shoulders out from under John’s hands.  He pounced on the book.  “You aren’t listening to me, Dad!  It’s the skinwalker.  I know it is!”

“You know that’s not true, Sam,” John said, and his anger began to diminish, and he reached for his son again and pulled him close. 

“It _is_ true!” Sam countered.

“No.  It isn’t.  And you know it, Sam…deep down you _know_ it isn’t.  Stop lying to yourself.”  The boy shook his head again, trying to squirm away. 

“Let me go, Dad.  Let me go.  I have to help Dean!” he yelled.  “You won’t do it, so I gotta!”

“Shhhh!” a disembodied voice scolded from a nearby aisle. 

“Let me go!” Sam whispered hoarsely as he tried to peel his father’s fingers off his wrist. 

John pulled the child into an unreciprocated hug.  He held him as he bucked and lurched against him.  “Why are you doing this, sport?  Just answer me,” he said into the child’s ear.

“Because we can…” Sam started to say, but his voice hitched.  “Because we can…” he took a couple more gulps.

“We can what, buddy?” John asked as he stroked the boy’s head.  Sam was no longer fighting him.

“Because then we can fix him,” Sam sobbed.  “Because then we won’t need doctors, and he won’t be brain dead!  And he won’t be dying.  Because he’s my brother and he can’t die.  He can’t!  Dad.  Dad, help him.  Please Dad!  Why can’t they help him?”  Sam’s knees hinged as he went limp against his father.   The hunter held him tight and they wept into each other.  Sam was inconsolable, his sobs shaking his body.  He quivered and gulped incoherently, though John could hear _Dean!_ being garbled every other breath the boy took. 

John held him until the librarian found them and stood not far away, completely uncertain how to approach them.  She cleared her throat and gave the man an awkward look, a mix of pity and admonishment.  John looked at her and then whispered in Sam’s ear.

“Let’s go, Sam.  You need to put this away.”  He felt the boy stiffen and shake his head.  “Yes, you do,” he said rubbing Sam’s back, feeling the vibrations of the boy’s sobs, trying to rub them away with the flat of his hand.  “Listen to me, Sam.”  The child still shook his head no.  “Yes.  Listen to me, now,” John said a little more sternly.  Sam went quiet against his father’s shoulder.  “If you spend what little time you have left with your brother like this, you will regret it for the rest of your life.  Don’t do that, Sam.  Don’t do that to yourself.  Let’s go back to the hospital and be with Dean.  Come on, now.”  John lifted the boy up as he rose, but Sam drew the line there.

“Put me down.  I can walk,” he said.

John nodded his head and set him down, hugging the boy’s shoulders and guiding him out of the aisle.  The stunned librarian silently watched them go and then tip-toed quickly over to pick up the strewn books.  The hunter never looked back.

Father and son walked back to the hospital in less than fifteen minutes, and they soon found themselves back in Dean’s room.  Sam looked like shit.  His hair was askew, his face puffy.  He’d broken some blood vessels around his eyes from crying, so the boy now had a swath of red needle-pricks both above and below his eyelids, completing his zombie-look.  John settled Sam down in a chair right next to Dean while he took up his own vigil on the other side of the bed.   Each reached for one of Dean’s hands and held it.   John was waiting for the boy to falter and lose his shit again like he’d done at the library, but Sam merely stroked his brother’s hand, holding it gently, reverently.  After a few minutes, he looked up at his father.

“Let’s pray for him.  For real, Dad,” Sam said.  The little boy bowed his head, using Dean’s hand as a prayer-focus, rubbing and massaging the limb as Sam’s lips worked feverishly around his soundless prayer. 

John watched Sam for a moment; the kid’s eyes were scrunched shut, his red, swollen nose trickling snot down to his lips that flapped urgently in prayer.  And for the first time since Mary had been taken from him, John bent his own head and joined his son.  It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t anything close to _Thy Will be Done_ , but he prayed nevertheless.  He prayed for the strength to make it through this, prayed for the patience to deal with Sam, prayed for forgiveness for having failed both of his sons, prayed for a miracle—just this one time.  Just once, and not for himself either.  He didn’t deserve a miracle, he knew that.  But his sons did.  He prayed for Sam who would be lost without his brother, and he prayed for Dean who deserved a chance at life and maybe even at happiness.  He prayed for all the people who would not live because Dean would not be there to save them, and if John knew anything at all, he knew his boy could and would save the entire world if given the chance. 

With all of his heart, John prayed.

* *

“Well, that’s something I never thought I’d ever see,” Dean said.  The sight surprised and shocked him, but it also saddened him immeasurably.  He stood not far away as Sam and John bent their heads quietly.  The angel stood silently with him, supporting him.  Dean was very tired.   “I mean, Sammy, yeah OK, I get him, but my dad—that’s just so…”  Dean didn’t finish.  He felt as though he was almost intruding on them, that he had no right to witness this moment.  He could feel all of their pain and grief.  His shoulders sagged, the weight of their fears pressing heavily upon him.  Heavier still was the burden of their hope, because he was terrified that those hopes were only going to be crushed.  That hurt the most.  It was unbearable, and Dean couldn’t watch it anymore.  He turned away and walked toward the window, looking out at the dark, tumultuous sea.  He felt cold and sick.  A soft light radiated off of the angel’s wings.  They flexed outward and slowly beat the air, stirring up a fragrant draft that helped to revive the weary teen.  Dean breathed deeply and cleared his throat.

“I’ve never seen my dad pray before,” he explained.  “He doesn’t even believe in  
God.  It sucks that his prayers won’t mean a thing in the long run.”  The boy shook his head, still startled by his father’s obvious desperation.  “Imagine that…a guy like him, praying…”  Dean bit his lip and rubbed his jaw.  He felt unworthy to be prayed for by the man.  “Sammy now,” he ventured as he searched the surf.  “He thinks there’s something there.”

“There _is_ something there,” the angel reminded him softly.

Dean’s chin quivered with anger on behalf of his family.  “Something,” he said hotly.  “Something’s there, but if all it ever does is sit and watch, then it’s not much different than praying to nothing.”

“Heaven hears their cries,” the angel responded.

“Oh yay,” Dean said, not attempting to hide his bitterness.  “Heaven may hear them, but who’s there to really listen or give a shit?”

“I am,” the angel said.  Dean looked at him and rolled his eyes a little.  The angel was unaffected by the boy’s anger.  He put his hand on Dean’s shoulder.  “I hear all of them.  So many people are praying for you,” he said.  Dean snorted derisively.

“For me?” Dean shook his head.  “I don’t know many people, and the ones who I do know, the few who _would_ give a shit, aren’t even aware that I’m sick.  Trust me on that.  I know my dad.   He ain’t gonna be organizing any prayer-circles.”  Dean smiled tartly.

“Everyone who took care of you back in Utah is praying for you,” the angel said. 

Dean clicked his tongue and looked dubious.  “Yeah, right,” he commented dryly.  “They’re not going to remember some random kid—one out of hundreds that they see each week,” he contested.

The angel’s wings uncurled again, casting a fiery glow on him from above.  “You are so blind,” he said, and his beautiful face became positively enflamed with impatience and frustration.  Dean reflexively stepped back, fearful of the angel’s sudden stormy mood.  “How can you not see your own light or how it affects those around you?”

“My light?   What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Dean scoffed.

The angel let out an irritated sigh, raking up a wind that tossed Dean’s hair and clothes about.  He turned to the teen and looked at him directly.  The wings stretched out, flapping fully as he unveiled his power again, leaving Dean on his knees and quaking.  The boy held up his hand to shield himself from the majesty.  “Look at me, Dean,” the angel commanded.  Dean tried to obey but it was nearly impossible to withstand the intensity, and tears filled his eyes, threatening to fall as he gazed upon the angel’s naked grace.  “Know this,” the angel said in a loud, vibrant voice.  “What you feel standing in my presence—however difficult it is—it is just as hard for me to stand in yours.”  Dean looked up, stunned.  “The light of your soul overwhelms.  It is almost not to be borne.  It is so pure that it sears.  And yet, I am drawn to it as a moth is to a flame.”  The angel’s radiance diminished to a level that Dean could cope with, and the boy breathed in great gulps of air.  “I have never felt the like of it,” the angel marveled to himself.  “Even contained and housed within your body, that light touches everyone you come into contact with.  It is indelible.  It is eternal.  So, of course they are praying for you: Nan and Layla, Sophia, Angie, Dr. Michaels, and especially your nurse Muriel—they’re all praying for your recovery.” 

“Muriel?  That old battle-axe?”  Dean laughed.  “I thought she hated me,” he said. “I don’t think I ever saw the old girl smile the entire week I was there.”  Dean saw the angel’s face relax, his features once again gentle and serene.  He wrapped his wings about him and turned, looking out the window.  They were both quiet for a moment before the angel began to speak, so softly at first that Dean had to strain to hear.

“Muriel was born on March 10, 1936.  When she was nine years old, her appendix burst, and she spent over two weeks in the hospital.  She never forgot how kind and helpful the nurses had been to her, and she wanted to help other people in the same way.  After high-school she attended nursing school and began her career as a surgical nurse in 1958.  She thrived on the intensity of the operating room, and she was very dedicated to her work.  Muriel married her high-school sweetheart, Mark, on May 1st 1959, and they looked forward to starting a family of their own.  Their first born child was a little girl named Celine, born on November 13, 1963.  She died from Neuroblastoma on January 22, 1970.  Muriel switched her nursing specialty to pediatrics after that.  She and Mark had one more child, another girl they called Joy, born on February 4th 1973.  Joy’s going to graduate from college this year—a BA in Theatre.”  He looked at Dean, the angel’s eyes dewy and deep.  “Muriel is worried for her—thinks she should have studied something more pragmatic.  She and Mark remain married, still deeply in love.  They vacation in Florida every other year.  It is Muriel’s dream to move there when they retire because she loves the balmy evenings and the sound of seagulls.”  The angel made a soft sound like a sigh.

“That old battle-axe, as you call her, has been praying for you, Dean.  Her prayers look a bit like a Cassatt painting.  And the vibration?—well, you would not care for it,” he said with a slow smile.  “But it resonates not unlike the finale of Haydn’s Symphony #104.  Humans are strange to me, but they have the potential for such sublimity, I think,” he said, closing his eyes.  His head tilted and he swayed a little as if experiencing Muriel’s prayers right then and there.  The feathers of his wings spun about and played with the light that they stirred up.  “Humans can experience such exquisite tragedy over the course of their lives.  Yet, they are resilient, overcoming their own sorrows only to turn around and help others during their times of need.  Wondrous, complicated creatures—humans are.”

Dean felt small in the face of Muriel’s goodness and generosity.  He swallowed thickly and watched the angel, losing himself in the beauty of his feathers as they flocked and danced and shifted in the opaline light that flowed like liquid over them.  He thought about peoples’ prayers and the types of things one would pray for.   He didn’t think he’d ever prayed—not really, anyway.  Rousing himself from his thoughts, he sighed and looked up.  “What are my dad’s prayers like?” he asked.

The angel’s eyes sparkled.  He turned around and approached the hospital bed, watching the Winchesters as they prayed.  “Thunder and drums, sound and fury,” he said, almost amused.  “The clash of sword on shield, a cacophonous salvo of demands and predatory threats.”

Dean laughed.  “Yeah, that’s him, all right.  And Sammy’s prayers?”

The angel’s humor evaporated and he intently watched the little boy.  Sam was still holding Dean’s hand.  The child’s lips were pressed against his brother’s skin, whispering his deepest hopes into the curl of Dean’s palm.  “His prayers are ceaseless—a Van Gogh painting with a million individual brush-strokes all swirling and combining to form one message.  The prayers are beautiful—pure and gentle, like blue sky and clouds sitting upon the surface of a still pond—but there is an ardent panic and terror burning the edges, creeping inward.  He believes strongly; yet, like me, he also does not understand why my Father has not spared you.”  The angel looked guilty.  “There is true desperation behind his requests.  He loves you very much,” the angel said simply.  “But there is great need there, too.  He does not believe he can continue on without you.”  The angel sighed and looked confused and unsettled again.

Dean looked at the angel.  “You think I’m going to die, don’t you?” he asked quietly.

“I do not know,” the angel confessed as he turned his weathered, tired eyes upon Dean.  They slowly searched Dean’s face.  “They pray, and so, too, do I.  I am praying to my Father on your behalf.”  

“How would you know if he answered your prayers?” Dean asked. 

“He would reveal His will to one of my brothers or sisters, and they would instruct me” the angel said.

Dean smirked.  “You mean like the douche who was here earlier?  I don’t think he was on my side.”  Dean looked at the angel’s contrite, pained face.  “Typical,” he said with an overblown shrug.  “I sure do know how to win ‘em over when it counts, huh?”  Dean shook his head and turned his back on the angel, walking out of his fortifying bubble.  The teen’s legs shook and he stumbled as he moved closer to his brother.  Sam was snuffling and wiping some tears away from his face, but he kept praying the whole time.  His eyes were swollen and irritated.  He looked exhausted.  Dean had never seen the kid so broken.

The little boy rubbed Dean’s hand and whispered.  “Please don’t leave me, Dean” Sam begged.  “Please stay.  Please.”

Dean’s bravado crumbled and he bent down by Sam, putting his hand over his brother’s, close enough to touch but not touching.  “I’m here, Sammy,” he said to the boy.  “I’m here, little man.”  He was quiet for a long moment and tears sprang from his eyes.  “I’m right here.  I won’t leave you.  I won’t!”

* *

John winced and squinted as the sunlight hit his eyelids.  He opened them hesitantly, blinking away the glare of the morning sun with a hiss.  Dammit, he’d overslept, and the boys would be late for school.  Kelly would be pissed when he showed up to work late, too.  Fucking beautiful.  He had no recollection of drinking heavily the night before, but his splitting headache told him otherwise.  With a cough and a sigh he sat up and looked about him, and as he did so, the dream shattered utterly and reality hurled itself at him so forcefully that it wrenched a guttural cry from the man.

Sam bolted up at the sound, and he sat blinking dumbly at his father.  John watched reality freight-train its way into his child just as it had done with him, and soon both of them were watching the wreckage in the other’s face, sharing a moment of stark, galled grief.  Sam shook his head in near disbelief, his eyes pooling. 

They both knew that today was the day. 

John looked at his watch.  It was a little after 8:00am.  He hadn’t slept long, maybe an hour—hour and a half.  Sam had slept restlessly for about four hours.  The child looked completely wasted, and it scared the hell out of him.  Sam’s eyes showed little life, nearly matching the vacancy in his brother’s.  How Sam would ever recover from this, John had no clue.  They both sat listless and frail.  And it occurred to John how their power-source was lying in the bed, about to be doused for good.  John shook his head, utterly bewildered.  How could a flame that had burned so brilliantly, a fire that had fueled an entire family, ever falter?  It was inconceivable to him.

John attempted to clear his throat.  “Bathroom.”  His voice scraped like dried clay, and he beckoned Sam to follow him.  They walked down to the end of the hallway and cleaned themselves up as best they could.  John splashed cold water on his face and blotted it off with a paper-towel.  He looked in the mirror.  His hair was greasy, his cheeks hollow, his eyes as lifeless and desolate as Sam’s.   John looked at the boy.  Sam was standing in front of the mirror, staring into it as though he’d forgotten where he was or what he was doing. 

“Hey Sammy,” he said, causing the boy to flinch at the nick-name.  “Wash your face and let’s get back,” he said.  Sam nodded but said nothing.  He stood staring a moment longer and then shut off the water without having remembered to wash.  He grabbed a paper towel, wiping his dry hands robotically.  John didn’t have the heart to say anything. 

As they made their way back to the ICU, John couldn’t help but notice all the mindless activity going on around them.  A doctor bustled by looking at his watch and frowning—thinking, no doubt, that missing his tee-time was a tragedy.  It wasn’t.  Not even remotely.  A woman in a smart outfit passed them, walking with authority and purpose.  She took no note of them, on some errand that didn’t matter, striding toward a pointless budget meeting, maybe.  Off to John’s left there were two nurses deep in conversation, giggling about something they had no goddamned right to laugh about—not today—not today when the world was about to stop spinning.  Everywhere John looked there were smiles on faces that should have been devastated.  There was an orderly walking with a chipper spring in his step, when he should have been still and paralytic with grief.  There were people talking casually when they should have been hushed and mute, because something precious was passing from this earth.  How could they not feel it?  How could they all just go on as if it didn’t matter?  His son was _dying_.  How could they not feel the power of that loss?  Dean was leaving the world.  Dean was leaving the world and taking with him the lion’s share of its compassion, loyalty, humor, wit, zest and honor.  How could they not stop whatever the fuck they were doing and tremble and quake with grief?   John wanted to scream and shake the impassivity out of them—make them all fall to their knees and hide their faces and weep for daring to live their lives while his son’s was being stolen from him.

John stopped and bent over, gasping erratically.  There were spots before his eyes and his stomach was churning.  He couldn’t catch his breath.  It was making him physically ill watching those heartless people go about their lives as if his and Sam’s weren’t falling apart.  He eyed the people—in their cruel indifference—cluelessly behaving as if Dean’s life and death was not rocking the very foundations of the earth.

“Dad?” Sam said.  John felt the boy’s hand on his back, and he tried to let him know that he was all right, but no words came out.  He clutched his stomach as it writhed and churned.  Grabbing the wall for balance, he pressed his forehead to it, shaking his head as he tried desperately to anchor himself.  He could hear Sam snuffle, terrified and worried.  John reached out with his hand, finding the boy’s head by touch, placing his hand on it to ground them both. 

For the past twelve years, John Winchester had believed that he had felt the epitome of grief that a person could ever experience when Mary had been stolen from him.  He’d watched as his soul-mate, the love of his life, was snatched from the world by an unspeakable evil.  Grief had taken him to a place that people rarely ever find themselves in life.  He never thought for one second that anything could ever rival that agony.  He’d been so wrong, so naively and catastrophically wrong.  This was worse.  _God forgive me, Mary; this is worse.  This is unendurable_ , he thought. 

“God forgive me, Mary,” he said aloud, unable to keep the words from tumbling into the air, twisting the wedding ring that he’d never removed, not even once.  “God help me, baby.  God help me, please,” he sobbed.  “Where are your angels, Mary?  You always said they were watching.  Where are they now?”

“Dad?” Sam cried pitifully, and John pulled the child to him, crushing the boy against him as the man tried to master his breathing. 

“I’m here,” he rasped out.  “I’m OK,” he tried to assure his son.  He felt Sam’s arms wrap around his waist, could feel the moist heat of the boy’s breath as he wept against him.  “We’re OK,” John said, petting Sam’s head.  They took another minute to settle from the wave of grief that had nearly pulled them under, and John went back to treading water.  “We’re OK, buddy.  Let’s get back.”  He turned, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, steering him.  Still, he kept one hand on the wall for balance as they slowly struggled toward the ICU.    

* *

When they finally entered the ICU, they found that Dr. Metzger was already there with a few colleagues examining Dean, making their final assessment.  One of the interns had his hand on Dean’s head, pressing this thumb just below the teen’s eyebrow.  John could see the amount of pressure the insensitive man was using, and the hunter dove for him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” John demanded.  Dr. Metzger held him back, but John barely noticed.  “Get your hands off my boy!” he shouted.  The enraged hunter made another attempt to lunge for the younger man, but Dr. Metzger pushed him back.

“Mr. Winchester,” The surgeon continued propelling the hunter backwards until his back met the wall abruptly.  He put his hand on John’s shoulder and patted it, trying to diffuse the situation.   “We’re just doing an exam.”

“He was hurting him.  You think I’m blind?  I saw how hard he was pressing,” John spat.

“Testing the pain response is part of the exam,” Dr. Metzger explained.  “Why don’t you wait outside until we’re done?  You can spend time with Dean afterward.”  John stood down but shook his head.

“No.  I’m not going anywhere.  My boy needs me,” he said, misery and defiance colliding.  “I’m good,” he assured him.  Dr. Metzger looked at John with pity, but his grip on the hunter’s shoulder remained stern.

“Then stand back and remain calm.  If you interrupt us again I will have you removed until we’re finished,” the physician warned.  John nodded, agreeing to his terms.

As the doctors went back to their exam, John noted that they seemed to be going through a checklist of sorts.  After having pressed his thumb into Dean’s eyebrow, the young doctor looked to Dr. Metzger for the OK to continue.  The surgeon nodded and the intern glanced at John uncomfortably before continuing his exam.  John watched the man perform a friction rub on Dean’s chest.  After that the intern took the boy’s hand, pressing on the beds of his nails, looking for a response that didn’t come.  They repeated each test twice.

“Motor response is a 1 on the Glasgow Scale.  Patient has no response to pain.  The patient was initially exhibiting decerebrate posturing immediately following the surgery, potentially due to the ventilator, but over the course of the past several hours, the body has become flaccid,” the younger physician said.  Another doctor made a notation on a chart. 

John’s heart broke when they lifted Dean’s eyelids and flashed a penlight into his pupils.  John knew how much Dean had always hated that.  There was absolutely no response or reflex now, however—no mischief or life sparked in those sightless, mismatched eyes.  The right pupil was still offset and pointing toward the corner of his eye.  The hunter had to flinch away when the doctor bent in, peeled back the boy’s lids and pressed on the ball of the eye, manually forcing the iris into a position from which he could perform an accurate test with his penlight. 

“Pupils are fixed and dilated.  No response to light or verbal commands,” he said.  Another mark went on the chart.

Dr. Metzger bent in and called Dean’s name several times, looking for any kind of reflexive telltale.  There was none. 

“Verbal response is a 1?” The young doctor asked to confirm.  Dr. Metzger nodded. 

“The patient has scored a total of 3 on the Glasgow Scale,” the intern said.  John wasn’t completely positive what that meant, but judging from the faces in the room, it wasn’t what they were hoping for.  The intern waited for Dr. Metzger to respond.  

“All right, set him up for the EEG,” the surgeon said.  As one of the other doctors began to gently work on the bandages around Dean’s head, Dr. Metzger looked at Sam and turned to John.  “Why don’t you and Sam step out for this,” he suggested.  “We’ll be done in about forty-five minutes.”  John was about to say no when he realized that the doctor didn’t want the boy to witness his brother’s bald head and incision site.  He nodded his head. 

“We’ll be right outside,” he said.  “Come on Sam.”  He steered the shell-shocked child from the room. 

The Winchesters waited outside the door without speaking one word to each other.  At some point a woman in a suit walked by and into the room and then a few minutes later a man in a sweater-vest, of all things, slipped past them and also entered the room.  Finally both of the interns walked out silently, rolling the EEG equipment in front of them.  Avoiding eye contact with John and Sam, they strode down the hallway quickly.  The Winchesters were allowed back in to see Dean a full hour and twenty minutes after they’d been forced out.  Dr. Metzger was standing with the woman, an administrator of some kind, no doubt, and the sweater-vested man. 

“Mr. Winchester.”  The woman held out her hand and John took it numbly.  “I’m Faith Mitchell, the Family Outreach administrator.  This is Gordon Delaney, our hospital Pastor.”  The pastor took John’s hand and sandwiched it in his own, awkwardly patting the hunter’s hand until John withdrew it abruptly.  He wanted to ask what was going on, but he already knew.  His mouth was too dry to get anything to come out. 

“Mr. Winchester,” Dr. Metzger said.  “We’ve completed our exam.  I’m very sorry to inform you that the EEG has shown no metabolic response or brain activity whatsoever.  Dean has scored a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale, which also indicates that there is no discernable brain function.  At this time, it is my recommendation as the attending physician that life-support be withdrawn.”

John and Sam stood side-by-side, blinking at the threesome in front of them.  No words came to John.  Sam was completely mute as well.  The hunter’s eyes burned and his head pounded.  His stomach was empty and yet threatened upheaval at any moment.  He stood completely still until the threesome began to eyeball each other.  The administrator cleared her throat.

“We’ll need you to sign these consent forms, if removing Dean from life-support is your wish.”  John looked at the woman as though she were speaking Greek. 

“My wish?” he scalded, appalled. 

“I just mean that, well…I’m sure you will want what is best for Dean,” she said kindly.  John glared at her and held his hand out for the form.  She handed it to him with a sigh of relief.  As John blindly signed the form, the woman watched him intently.  She gripped his shoulder as he finished writing.  “Hopefully this will give you some closure, Mr. Winchester.  I’m very sorry for your loss.” 

John pushed the papers at her angrily.  “I’ve signed, now take your consent form and get the hell out of here,” he said.  “You don’t have a goddamned clue, lady.  Closure?  What the hell are you talking about?  There will never be closure.  Never,” he hissed.  The woman swallowed and backed away, preparing to leave with her tail between her legs.  “And take the pastor with you,” John added over his shoulder.  “He’s not welcome here.  Dean is an atheist.  And so am I.”  The minister raised his eyebrows but silently nodded.  He also made his way to the door.   

“My sincerest condolences to you both,” the pastor said and left.  John looked at the doctor.

“Sam and I want to be alone with Dean for a moment,” he said.

“Of course,” Dr. Metzger said.  “I’ll be right outside.”  He too slipped out without another word.

Once the doctor was gone and they were alone, John and Sam slowly walked to the foot of the bed.  Dean’s head had been re-bandaged.  John was sorry that the kid had not been able to keep his hair.  Dean’d had so few vanities, but John knew that despite the boy’s roguish outer shell, he had secretly taken pride in his appearance, always making sure his hair was styled the way he liked it, taking the effort to be sure the swoops and spikes were just so.  John couldn’t help but smile at the memory of his son standing in front of the small motel mirror, surreptitiously fussing with his hair until he was satisfied.

He looked down at the boy’s legs and rubbed them.  The blankets and sheets had been rumpled and pulled up during Dean’s final exam when they had tested his motor reflexes.  John could see his son’s foot peeking out from under the blanket.  He pulled the sheet back and caressed the pale limb.  It was the exact same foot he had inspected on the date of his son’s birth.  He remembered how he and Mary had lit up with joy, awestruck—wiggling each digit, counting them—so relieved they were all there and that their beautiful baby was healthy and whole.  Bending down, now, John kissed the foot just as he had done that cold, January morning sixteen years ago and pulled the blanket back down, tenderly covering Dean back up.

Both he and Sam made their way up to the side of the bed, and John settled in the chair, taking Dean’s hand in his own.  They sat there for several minutes, neither one speaking—just caressing, looking, memorizing—steeling themselves.  At last John broke the silence.     

“You did real good, Dean.  You fought hard.  I know you did.  But you listen to me, bud.  Listen to me, OK?  Don’t hang around.  You go on.  We’ll be all right.  I know you.  I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t do it, Dean.”  John stroked the boy’s hand.  “Sammy and me, we’re going to miss you more than words can say, but it’s not right to try and stay.  You go on, now.  That’s an order.  We clear?  Go see your mom.”  John smiled as tears dropped onto his shirt.  “You give her a hug from me.”  He sniffed and paused to collect himself.  “She’ll have some tomato-rice soup ready for you, yeah?  I know you’ll like that.”  John’s chin quivered and he clenched his teeth until the wave of grief passed enough for him to speak again.  He cleared his throat.  “We’ll be all right.  We’ll catch up with you later.  You did real, real good.  I’m so proud of you, Dean.”  He was quiet a moment, trying to find the words, but they were all hollow and unworthy.  “It has been a privilege and an honor, son.  I didn’t deserve you, but I’m glad I had you for as long as I did.  I love you, Dean.  I love you so goddamned much.”  He placed a kiss on Dean’s cheek and then one on his hand, pressing it to his heart.  “Remember now, no hanging around.  If there’s a reaper there, you go with him.  I know you’re scared and I know you don’t want to go, but it’s the right thing to do.  I’ll look after Sammy.  I promise.”  John nodded to Sam and boosted him up, setting the boy on his own lap and let him lean in close to his brother. 

Sam didn’t say anything.  The child looked to be in shock.  John pulled him back and looked into his glassy eyes, wondering if the boy was aware of what was happening.  “Sam?” he asked and patted the boy’s cheek.  Sam looked at him with eyes steeped in grief, his suffering keen and raw.  “Don’t let this moment pass without telling him how you feel,” he advised the boy.  The child swallowed and nodded feebly.  John leaned him in toward Dean again, and the little boy pressed his lips against his brother’s ear and whispered his goodbye.  John could not catch what was said and figured that was the way it should be.  It was between the two of them.  It had always been so.  It had always been the two of them against the world, even against him when push came to shove.  Sam kissed his brother and John pulled him back. 

The hunter got up without another word and went to the door, opening it and nodding to Dr. Metzger.  The surgeon stepped in and went to the ventilator.  He took a moment to assess their state of mind, to gauge if they were prepared.  Taking a cleansing breath, he turned to John.  He placed his finger on the off-switch. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

John held Sam tight and continued to grip Dean’s hand, sending him what strength he could, knowing his boy was about to fall into eternity.  If anyone could do it well, it would be his son.  Sunlight from the window spilled across his son’s radiant face.  John’s heart swelled, bursting with boundless love.  He never took his eyes off of Dean as he spoke.

“Do it,” he said.             

**_To Be Continued…_ **

 


	8. My Cup Runneth Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this story to my guardian angels…my betas! 
> 
> Thank you Amanda—you who are in the thick of getting your Doctorate but still took time to beta for me again. I know, quite frankly, you were too busy for this, but you always treated your beta work as though it was the only thing on your plate. I know differently, though, and I thank you so much for sacrificing what little down-time you had in order to beta this story. Thank you especially for your medical expertise. Dean’s aphasia sounded as authentic as it did because of your gentle nudgings! 
> 
> Thank you Mel—you who juggled work and family obligations in order to give me feedback on each chapter, usually within 24 hours, no less. You’re about to become a mom for the first time, and still you gave me your undivided attention. You stood on the front lines of this story, getting the grimiest drafts, having to slog through my typos and idiot errors. Beyond that, you improved my work with solid criticism, sound suggestions and much-appreciated advice and encouragement. The angels would have come off sounding like Renaissance Festival rejects had it not been for you! Thank you for your honesty and your expertise. Both of you gals pushed me when I slacked off and pulled me back when I’d gone too far, and I thank you for that! 
> 
> Thank you to Becky for being a wonderful friend to share this journey with. You’re always a delight, brightening my inbox and my day with your cheerful wit and enthusiasm! Thank you all!

 

Dean felt warmth on his face, and despite his dwindling strength, he opened his eyes, raising himself on his elbows.  The sun was climbing above the far horizon like a liquid ball of butterscotch, back-lighting the angel’s silhouette as he stood before the window.  The sunlight gilded his wings, and despite the effort it took to keep his eyes open, Dean feasted his eyes and caught his breath.  He groaned out, trying to roll over and sit up; the angel was at his side immediately.

“You are awake,” he said, bending down to help the boy.

Dean fended him off.  “What gave it away, Sherlock?” Dean smiled grimly, teetering as he struggled to rise. 

The angel squinted, tilting his head.  “My name is not _Sherlock_ ,” he said.  Dean rolled his eyes, and gripping the angel’s hand as it was offered a second time, he used it to lever himself into a sitting position. 

“Thanks,” he said with a weary sigh.  He tried to rub the fog out of his head, but his hands were limp and soggy and fell at his sides.  He would have tipped over if the angel had not reached out and steadied him.  “What’s wrong with me?” he asked groggily. 

The angel softly smoothed the boy’s hair and Dean instinctively sought out the revitalizing droplets of light that softly fell from the angel’s wings.  The teen’s head lolled against his friend’s chest and he breathed deep.  The angel looked down at the boy with worried eyes.  “You are still connected to your body, and it has reached its limit, I’m afraid.  It’s becoming a drain on your soul.  I’m sorry.  I have tried to sustain you as you slept, but it is no longer enough.  You need something stronger, but…” the angel hesitated. 

“You’d have to have your dad’s permission,” Dean finished for him.  “Yeah, I get it,” he sighed.  He sat dully for a moment and then weakly looked up at the angel holding him.  “Guess m’gonna die, then?”  Dean’s eyes closed down and he strove to reopen them. 

“My Father has not given permission to intervene on your behalf,” he said, and Dean could feel the angel shake with his words.  He seemed angry—very angry.  Dean shuddered to think what would happen if the angel chose not to restrain himself.  “The situation is becoming very critical,” he admitted.

Dean finally peeled his eyes open.  “Is my soul gonna die, too?” Dean asked hazily, trying to focus on the face above his.

“No Dean,” the angel replied with a shake of his head.  “Your soul is not in danger.  If your body does die, it will cease to be a drain.  Your soul will recover.  It’ll be much like the morning after having ingested copious amounts of alcohol.”

“So, you’re saying m’gonna have the mother of all hangovers?  An’ I don’ even get t’drink?” the boy slurred.

“That is correct.”

“Well, where the hell’s the fun in _that_?” Dean breathed out waspishly and closed his eyes for another moment.  His thoughts and consciousness wandered.  When he stirred again, the angel was still holding him gently.  He looked listlessly into the angel’s eyes.  “M’tired,” he confessed.  “D’I fall asleep on you?”

“It’s all right, Dean,” the angel said.  “I’m keeping watch.  You have nothing to fear.  You can sleep if you’re tired.”

Dean studied the face above his and gave a crooked, hazy smile.  “You’re all right for an angel, you know that?” he said. 

The comment seemed to touch off the angel’s anxiety.  He vacillated, frowning.  “I have been of no assistance,” he said with a tick of frustration.  “I have been ineffective.  My father should have sent someone else, I’m afraid.”  Dean shrugged tiredly. 

“It’s not your fault,” he said.  “You made the decisions you thought were best.”

The angel looked distressed.  “Did I?” he asked.  “Is this what my Father wants?”  The angel sighed.  “I am so…unsettled,” he confided.  “I do not feel that this is coming to an adequate conclusion.”  He shook his head and closed his eyes, struggling.  “I have never questioned my Father’s will before,” he said very quietly.  “I don’t know what to do.”

Dean sighed, shifting away, pulling himself into a sitting position.  He looked where his body was laying in the bed.  His brows pleated.  “Where’s Dad and Sammy?” he said.  They were nowhere to be seen.  Instead, a few doctors were hovering around the bed, talking quietly and attaching a bunch of electrodes to his bald head.  “What’s going on?”  He fought to get his feet under him.

The angel helped the boy up and braced him.  “Your family is waiting in the hallway.  The doctors are testing your brain function.”

“They gonna find anything?”  Dean looked at the angel, but his friend’s troubled silence answered his question.  The teen watched the doctors for a while, but standing was becoming nearly impossible, even with the aid of the angel.  As the boy sighed heavily, he noticed that his breath steamed out.  His skin suddenly prickled with cold.  “Oh shit.”

Turning, he saw that the young girl—the reaper—was in the room again.  She was standing in the corner, watching the doctors as they made their evaluation.  Dean cried out and attempted to wave her off.   He lurched away from the angel, shooing the reaper off.  “Get away from me!” he shouted, stumbling to his knees, his hands flying out to break his fall.  He looked up as the reaper turned her head to him.  “I said get the hell away from me.  I’m not going with you!”  The girl gave him a peppermint smile. 

“I’m not here to harm you,” she told him as she walked over.

“The hell you’re not!” he shouted, skittering back as she approached.  The angel ran forward, stooping down and pulling Dean away from the reaper. 

“Don’t touch him,” the angel warned.  The reaper stopped and folded her arms defiantly in front of the angel.

“You don’t have authority over me, cousin,” she scolded.  “His fate isn’t up to you.  You have your orders.  I have mine.  He’s _my_ charge now.  He’s under _my_ protection, and I’ll do what’s best for him.”  The angel’s face was angry as his eyes sparred with hers.  He finally broke, looking away, defeated.  The reaper reached for Dean, but the angel’s wing folded itself around the boy, protectively.     

“Wait,” the angel pled.  “Please don’t take him yet.  There is still time for my Father to step in.”  The reaper slowly shook her head.

“No,” she said.  “It’s time.”  She pointed to the doctors near the bed.  Silently pushing the wing back, she bent in and took hold of Dean’s hand. 

Dean’s skin froze and he began trembling from the cold that radiated out from her.  “Don’t!” he begged.  “St—stay away!  Too c—cold!”  The reaper pulled her hand back, looking at him with pity.  Dean suddenly felt the cold surrounding her diminish as though she, like the angel hiding his grace, subdued her power enough for him to remain comfortable in her presence.  Dean looked into the girl’s eyes as she bent down to him.

“You have nothing to fear,” she said.

“That’s easy for _you_ to say,” Dean continued trying to back away from her, pressing himself into the angel.  “It’s not your life on the line; it’s mine,” he snapped.

“This is part of life,” she told him, kindly.  “It is just as important as your birth and all the time in between.”

“I don’t care what it is or isn’t.  I’m not leaving my family,” he said flatly.  “I’m just not.  Even if I die, I’m still not leaving them, so you can just go the hell away.”  He looked toward the bed and saw that his dad and Sam were in the room again.  There was a tailored woman and a frumpy man standing with them.  “Dad!” he called out anxiously.  He pushed the reaper’s hand away and slowly got to his feet and stood there wobbling.  He tenuously moved toward his family.  The angel began to pace around, agitated, but Dean barely noticed.  His eyes were on his father.

His dad was bitching out the lady.  _I’ve signed, now take your consent form and get the hell out of here!_ the hunter said bitterly.  He eyed the woman up and down with utter disgust.  _You don’t have a goddamned clue, lady.  Closure?  What the hell are you talking about?  There will never be closure.  Never._  His dad’s chin quivered.  _And take the pastor with you.  He’s not welcome here.  Dean’s an atheist.  And so am I._  Dean was shocked at his father’s appearance, the loss and hopelessness in the man’s eyes was crushing. 

“I wish he had never prayed for me,” Dean said, his eyes watering.  “Then he wouldn’t have had to know that God didn’t care enough to answer.”  He saw the angel shift and stiffen and then go back to his pacing.  The teen looked at Sam.  Tears ran down the little boy’s cheeks, but he stood next to his father, tall and quiet, saying nothing. 

“Come Dean,” the reaper said softly.  “It’s almost time.”  She reached out her hand to him, and Dean felt the unaccountable urge to take it.  He pulled back just before touching her. 

“No, dammit.  I’m not going,” he said angrily.  Everyone had left the room other than his father and Sam.  He watched them approach the foot of his bed.  Dean moved to walk over to them, but his body wouldn’t obey.  His legs went out from under him, and the angel flew over and caught him, setting him lightly on the floor.  From the shelter of the angel’s arms, the teen watched his father lift the sheet and kiss his foot before tucking it back in.  That tore at Dean’s heart. 

“Aw, Dad,” he said brokenly.  “I’m here!” he called out.  “I’m here!  I’m not gonna leave you.  I swear I won’t.”   He saw the reaper give the angel a cautionary look, and she shook her head slowly.  She knelt down by Dean and the angel.  Dean tiredly turned away from her, looking to his father for strength and guidance.  The hunter began to speak

 _You did real good, Dean.  You fought hard.  I know you did.  But you listen to me, bud.  Listen to me, OK?  Don’t hang around.  You go on.  We’ll be all right.  I know you.  I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t do it, Dean._   His dad gripped his hand and rubbed it lovingly.  Dean’s shoulders slumped, his spirit devastated.

“Dad,” he cried out.  “No!  Please don’t make me go, Dad.  Please!  I can’t leave Sammy!  Who’s going to look after things?  You need me!” he begged.   

_Sammy and me, we’re going to miss you more than words can say, but it’s not right to try and stay.  You go on, now.  That’s an order.  We clear?  Go see your mom._

Dean tried to lever himself up, tried to run away, tried to unhear the words his father had spoken.  Despite his father’s grief, Dean recognized that commanding tone.  The man meant what he said; Dean knew that.  This was his father’s final order, and it was one that the teen didn’t know if he had the strength to carry out.  But he was his father’s son.  He didn’t know how he could not obey.  He felt both the angel and the reaper draw close.  He was leaning against the angel, but he felt an inexplicable pull toward the reaper.

_You give her a hug from me.  She’ll have some tomato-rice soup ready for you, yeah?  I know you’ll like that.  We’ll be all right.  We’ll catch up with you later.  You did real, real good.  I’m so proud of you, Dean.  It has been a privilege and an honor, son.  I didn’t deserve you, but I’m glad I had you for as long as I did.  I love you, Dean.  I love you so goddamned much._

“Dad…” Dean begged.  “I can’t.  Dad, please.”  The angel was shuddering now as if he, too, had begun to weep.  Dean felt the reaper stroke his hair and despite his grief and defiance, he leaned into her touch.  It soothed like frozen aloe—drained away his will to resist.  He felt her shift him away from the angel until he was fully cradled in her arms, his head limply resting on her slight bosom.  His eyes darkened and closed.  His father’s words continued to echo around him and within him.

_Remember now, no hanging around.  If there’s a reaper there, you go with him.  I know you’re scared and I know you don’t want to go, but it’s the right thing to do.  I’ll look after Sammy.  I promise._

And that was it.  The order had been given, and Dean couldn’t fight anymore.  He was tired.  So damn tired.  The reaper caressed him while the angel’s wings flapped out their unease and agitation. 

_Sam? Don’t let this moment pass without telling him how you feel._

“Sammy?” Dean said dreamily, his unseeing eyes opening wide for a moment.  A weak smile swept across his face, and it seemed to him that he actually felt his brother’s lips on his cheek, kissing him.  He languidly reached up and touched his face, expecting his brother to be right there.  He could feel the little boy’s warm breath in his ear, could hear his brother’s whispered words penetrate through the haze.  “Oh Sammy,” he said, his voice caught, trembling.  Dean’s fading eyes sought out the angel, beckoning him to come close.  The angel bent down on one knee, his wings arching high above his head. 

“What is it, Dean?” he asked.

His voice was nothing more than a whisper.  “Sammy wants—Sammy wants to know wh—why Heaven needs me more than he does,” he said haltingly.  “M’only asking ‘cause he wanted me to ask you,” Dean said and closed his eyes again.  He relaxed back into the arms of the reaper.  She pet him and spoke soft, soothing words into his ear. 

The angel, however, remained kneeling, poised, taut and tense like a gravestone statue bent in thought.  His face reflected a deep inner struggle, striving to find a suitable answer, but there was none.  None.  “It doesn’t,” he said plainly.  “It doesn’t,” he repeated. 

Dean and the girl paid no more attention.  Dean looked up into the dark eyes of the reaper as she bent over him, her fingers brushing against his cheek.  The touch was too compelling to deny, and he surrendered to her. 

“Are you ready _?_ ” she asked.

Dean’s breath hitched and he nodded, at peace, craving release.  He swallowed convulsively.  “Do it,” he said.   

She smiled at him and used her thumb to tilt his face to meet hers.  As she bent in for her final kiss, Dean gazed at her, returning the smile.  His breath was a white cloud.  He was ready.  So, so ready.

“No!” the angel’s voice reverberated through the room.  Dean could feel the power of the word.  It trembled in his core.  Dean heard the angel extend his wings, unfurling and flexing them, light and power exploding outward as they spanned the room.  Even with his eyes closed, white-hot radiance stabbed Dean’s eyes, and he felt the air crackle and surge with angel-grace.  He gasped, eyes flung wide.  Through the blinding light, Dean saw the angel standing by the bed, tall and fierce and resolute.  The angel’s beauty was absolute—violent and commanding.  Dean watched his friend turn and look him in the eye.  There were stars in the palms of his hands.

“You are needed elsewhere, Dean Winchester.”  The angel’s words resounded and the earth quaked.  And his supernova hands descended onto Dean’s chest where he lay in the hospital bed.  The body glowed, and Dean’s soul responded. 

At first, the sensation was pleasant, much like the warm droplets of angel-grace that had always helped revive him, but the sudden flow soon became far too intense and it seared him, magma hot.  He pitched up, gasping, sizzling as the power poured into him, welding white, filling every chamber, every particle and wave of him.  He could contain no more and still the power continued to Niagra into him, the excess spilling out, billowing into the air around him, until he was surrounded by an aura of ivory flame.  Through the rage, he heard the reaper wail in distress.

“You can’t do this!” she cried out, angry, horrified.  “Get away from him!”

It was the last thing Dean heard before he was suddenly pinwheeling through space, hurtling like a burning meteor toward his body.  When body and soul collided, there was a sickening explosion of molten agony in the back of his head, and his senses reeled and fled.  Yet, even as darkness overtook him, Dean knew with absolute certainty that he was himself—that he was not lost—that he was not going with the reaper.  He was where he was needed.  And so he yielded to the void, allowing it to take him wherever it would.

* *

“No!” Sam shouted, and John jumped, startled by the outburst.  The surgeon took his hand off the switch, perhaps fearing that Sam was not ready or wondering, maybe, if it would be better if the child were removed from the room. 

 _Oh God, not now, Sam_ , John thought.  Both Dr. Metzger and John looked at the child.  The hunter was puzzled by the look on the boy’s face.  Instead of grief and denial, John saw wonder and wild surprise.  Sam lifted a shaky finger and pointed to Dean.

“Sam,” the hunter said as gently as he could, but Sam shook his head, stuttering and pointing.

“Th—the Light!”  He looked around in awe and gasped again.  “Feel that?  Oh!  Do you feel it?  Oh wow!  Dean!  H—he…he moved!  He moved!” he shouted.  “There!  Right there!  His fingers moved!” 

John looked where Sam was pointing but saw nothing.  “Sam,” he said brokenly, fearing that the child was having some sort of breakdown.  “Don’t…” he began, but then he stopped dead in his tracks.  John still had Dean’s other hand gripped tightly in his own, and he suddenly felt a twitch.  A thrill of adrenaline shot through John’s body.   He looked down and it happened again.  Dean’s fingers flexed and quivered a little before relaxing again.  John looked at his son’s face.  The boy’s eyebrows twinged and then knotted a moment before relaxing.   

“Jesus!” John said with a start.  “Dean?  Son?” he said breathlessly.  He could barely grasp what was unfolding.  He bent in close, stroking his son’s cheek, fear and hope storming across his face, taking over his body.  Without thought, he instinctively reached out and tried to gather Dean into his arms, upsetting the equipment.  The doctor acted quickly and pulled him away.

The surgeon moved John aside and bent in, looking at the boy.  When Dean’s eyelids began to flutter, the doctor lifted them and flashed a penlight into each pupil.  John sucked in a breath.  Both irises were front and center.  They reflected disorientation, pain, and shock, yes—but they also reflected _Dean_.  The boy even flinched and tried to retreat from the annoying light.  John’s hand covered his mouth and fresh tears stung his eyes.  He was looking at his son.  Dean was right there, right now.  Sam moved forward to get to his brother, but John pulled him back so that the doctor could work.

“Dean?” the doctor called his name near the boy’s face.   Dean’s eyes fluttered again and opened about halfway before closing down.  The doctor scraped his knuckles across Dean’s sternum and the teen’s arms curled inward reflexively from the pain.  Dr. Michael’s face went ashen, and he shook his head, clearly at a loss.  He hit the call-button and soon several people were swarming the room.  John and Sam were quickly ushered away despite their protests, forced once more to wait outside until further word.  A steady stream of doctors, nurses and technicians entered and exited the room in a flurry of activity.  The EEG machine was soon rolled back into the room and John and Sam stood stunned and silent.  It was pure torture, but this time, however, John knew that every second that passed was another moment that Dean was alive.  Every second that lapsed increased John’s hope—and worry.  Surely, they would not be kept away if the doctor had not found some basis to keep the ventilator on.  John was convinced that he had seen his son in those dazed, green eyes. Sam’s small voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Did God just heal Dean?” he asked, his red eyes aflame with wonder.  John looked at the boy, taking a slow moment to concentrate on what he had asked. 

“God?” he asked, confused.  “I don’t know, Sam.   I don’t know what’s going on.  But something’s happening.”

“But didn’t you feel it?” Sam asked, looking at his father strangely. 

“Feel what?”

Sam raised an eyebrow.  “What do you mean _what_?  How could you miss it?  Didn’t you feel the power?  It was like sticking your finger in a light socket only it didn’t burn.  It was warm—like sunshine, only a lot, _lot_ brighter.  It was all over Dean, Dad.  You really didn’t feel it?”

John stared at the boy.  He had no clue what the kid was talking about.  Sam had been in such a state of shock earlier that John was worried that he was imagining things, possibly even hallucinating.  He didn’t want to argue, though—not now. 

“I didn’t feel anything,” he said.  Sam was just about to say something else when the door opened.  They stepped back as several people began moving the bed out of the room.  Dr. Metzger pulled the Winchesters aside.

“We have to take Dean down for another CT scan right away.”  The man looked as shaken as they were.

“What is it?” John pressed, his fear and anxiety spiking.  “What’s happening to him?”

The doctor scratched his head.  “We performed another EEG and there is…”  The doctor seemed torn between elation and confusion.  “It’s showing brain activity.  A lot of it, in fact.  We’ve stabilized him, but we need to see what’s happening as quickly as we can.”

“Is he awake?” Sam asked.

The doctor shook his head.  “No, but he’s responding to touch and his reflexes are…”  Again the doctor paused to shake his head, stymied by his own admission.  “His reflexes are actually very good.”  He moved to follow the bed.  “We’re going to be running several tests.  Why don’t you head down to the dayroom and have a seat.  I’ll be back to talk to you as soon as I can.”  The bewildered doctor left them with another shake of his head.  

John and Sam were left bobbing and burbling in the wake of the activity as the entourage moved down the hall.  Sam looked up at his father. 

“God heard our prayers,” he said in awe.  John looked down at the boy.  He didn’t know quite what to think at this point, but he was suddenly terrified for Dean all over again.  He could feel his knees start to buckle from the rollercoaster he was riding.  He looked at Sam blankly. 

“You’ll see, Dad,” the boy said emphatically.  “God knew we needed him more.”

* *

The moon kept its quiet vigil over the dark, sleeping sea.  The angel stood long and then stretched his wings; he turned from the window and moved to stand near Dean’s bed.  John and Sam Winchester were slumped in nearby chairs.  It had been without question one of the most stressful days that either had ever endured.  Added to the considerable exhaustion they’d already been suffering, both were now completely out, sleeping so deeply that the angel sensed no dreams or thoughts coming from either one of them.  It was the same for Dean, who had not yet awakened from the trauma of having been healed. 

It had been an intense ordeal for all involved.  Even the reaper had been shocked and appalled by the events.  The angel couldn’t help but smile just a little bit, thinking of her horrified face and hostile departure.  He did not regret his decision, but he did at least acknowledge that he had allowed events to spiral out of control before taking action.  The boy had been too close to death, and healed or not, that would leave a mark on his soul.  That was something the angel could not undo, and Dean would have to recover his strength of spirit as well as his strength of body.  The angel knew, at least, that Dean’s family would be there to help revive him.  That would be much better medicine than anything he could have contrived, anyway.  He bent in close to Dean, listening for any thoughts or soul-chatter, but all was quiet within.  All three of the Winchesters were resting, and that was very encouraging indeed. 

As the angel stood erect, taking up his solitary watch, he felt a rumble beneath his feet and heard the flap of feathers not far behind him.  He sighed and closed his eyes but did not turn.  He continued to look at Dean’s sleeping face.  The room remained static and tense for a long moment.  The angel could feel the animosity radiating off of the newcomer. 

“I thought your orders were clear,” the seraph said with a quiet, deadly anger.

The angel nodded as he continued to watch Dean.  He knew this was not going to be pleasant, but he stood tall, sound in his decision, regretting nothing, willing to do the same all over again if given the choice.  “They were,” he said, eyes on the boy. 

“You were told to observe and nothing more.”

“I was,” the angel admitted. 

The seraph moved closer.  He was seething.  “Be very careful my brother,” he said disdainfully.  “Many angels have fallen or been cast down for less than what you have just done.  You would have already been thrown out of the garrison had my counsel prevailed.”

The angel shrugged ever so slightly.  He turned to the seraph, looking at the contempt in his face before turning back to the sleeping boy.  “I hear you, brother,” he said.  “I judged the situation as best I could.  I wasn’t going to let him die.”  He paused a moment.  “Besides, I didn’t fix everything,” he said.  “I wasn’t that conspicuous.  I only fixed the problems that were caused by the bleeding and swelling in his brain.  He still has to recover from the surgery itself.”  The angel bent close again, studying the body.  “He is also developing an infection in his lungs from the breathing machine he is attached to.  The doctors will have to treat him for it.”  The angel looked at the seraph.  “He has a long row to hoe, but he is needed here more.  He is too valuable.  I made the right choice.”

The seraph came up to his side and looked at the unconscious teen.  “It wasn’t your choice to make.  You have coddled this thing,” he huffed.  “And if Lucifer is loosed, Michael will have to rely upon a subpar vehicle.  The fate of the world rests with this body.  What good is a vessel if it doesn’t have the strength to accomplish what it was made for?”

“The fortitude of the vessel shouldn’t be measured by the strength of one single artery.  Dean Winchester is stronger than you can possibly conceive.  Protecting Michael’s vessel should rank as a higher priority than you seem to give it.  How many times have I heard both you and Uriel say it?  This is our brother’s _one true vessel_ , and our greatest hope,” the angel said passionately. 

“This vessel is weak.  We can’t hope to win the battle ahead with this thing.  Too much is riding on it.  Better to just start over from scratch.”  The seraph dismissed the body in the bed with a flick of his wrist and turned away.

The angels spun on the seraph, eyes blazing.  “He isn’t a _thing_.  He isn’t a _vessel_.  His name is _Dean_.  You accuse me of being blinded by his light, but I believe you are being willfully blind _to_ it.  You fail to see his value, for what reason, I cannot begin to guess.  Petty jealousy?  Vindictiveness?  I don’t know.  But you know just as well as I that any slight physical defect of the vessel could be and would be completely eradicated by its host, and Michael is the strongest among us.  But even Michael cannot alter a soul.  And this boy’s soul is stronger and brighter than any human I have yet come across.  Michael will not just need a strong vessel; he will need a strong soul to interact with, to bind himself to.”  The seraph angrily rolled his shoulders and turned away.  The angel circled around forcing the seraph to look him in the eye.  “We may be able to nourish and comfort—even heal, but no angel—not Michael himself—can create a soul.  That is the sole domain of our Father.  We cannot rely on just _any_ vessel.  Such an important task should not be entrusted to an understudy.”  The angel shook his head, disgusted by the seraph.  “If I didn’t know better, I would think you did not want us to defeat Lucifer.”

“You know nothing, little brother,” the seraph laughed angrily.  “Perhaps you should go back to watching the tide and counting flowers and butterflies instead of interfering in affairs you don’t have the wisdom to comprehend.” 

“I didn’t interfere.  I was told to come here.”

“You were told to watch events and report what unfolded, not use it as a springboard for your own ambition.  Trying to hoist yourself above the ruck, are you?  Trying to earn a reputation for yourself, maybe—I mean, aside from your already established reputation for being shockingly naïve?” the seraph said snidely.  “Our Father was testing the vessel, and you corrupted everything.”

“He wasn’t testing the vessel.  He was testing _us._   Can’t you see that?  Perhaps he was testing me,” the angel said with heat.

“And you failed.”

“Did I?  Where is Joshua?  What is his counsel?  Surely, if our Father was angry, then Joshua would have sent you here to cast me down.  Has he done so?”  The angel watched as the seraph shifted uncomfortably and smugly folded his wings in front of him.  He had nothing to say, telling the angel the truth of the matter.  “I thought as much,” he said and turned back to watch his charge.

“Did you—did you just _roll your eyes_ _at me_?” the seraph boomed.  The angel made no response.  “You should not spend much more time with humans—especially this one.  You are picking up his truculence.”

“I sincerely disagree,” the angel said.  “In fact, I believe he has taught me more about human nature in a few days than I have learned in a thousand years.”

“Your judgment is clearly being clouded,” the seraph said, refusing to give the angel the last word.  He cast a flinty eye on the teen in the bed.  “They are filthy creatures—smelly, horny, and prone to disease.  If it weren’t for us working on their behalf they would be utterly unworthy of Heaven.”

The angel’s wings flared and his eyes shone bright.  “Isn’t it odd, then, that we must attach ourselves to them in order to truly experience an earthly existence?  We can’t walk among them; we can’t interact with the world without _their_ permission and generosity.  We can’t even hope to defeat an evil that they had no hand in creating without _their_ assistance and cooperation.  They may be unworthy of Heaven, but it seems that we are just as unworthy of Earth.  Why else would our Father keep it from us?  Our road to paradise will be paved with their sacrifices—and this boy’s in particular—yet you don’t even have the decency to call him by his name.  You should be ashamed, Zachariah,” he admonished very quietly.  The seraph was stunned into petulant silence.  The angel reached out a hand and set it on Dean’s chest, feeling his strong heartbeat.  He spoke again.

“It was the sage, Zarathustra, who once said that you could see the entire universe within a single grain of wheat.  I believe it is much the same with Dean.  I see my Father in him.  I could not—I would not let such a soul pass from the earth for something as inconsequential as a piece of malformed, organic tissue.”  He turned and faced his superior, looking him directly in his eyes.  “I will accept whatever punishment my Father sees fit to bestow for my disobedience.”

The seraph stewed, having no snappy comeback.  “I will go seek His revelation, then,” he said bitterly.

“You do that, brother,” the angel said with a small snort.  “I will be right here, watching.”

* *

The sun was slipping toward the horizon on the second day after Dean had miraculously come back from the brink.  John watched his son twist and tick in his dreams.  The boy had a low-grade fever and was being given an aggressive round of antibiotics to fight the pneumonia he’d contracted from the ventilator.  John watched Dean flinch and wince in his light delirium.  It was troubling to see his son continue to struggle day after day, but considering everything he’d endured, John was certain that Dean would beat this, too—handily. 

After the shocking events when they’d nearly disconnected Dean from life-support, every specialist in the hospital had descended upon his son, poking, prodding, scanning, studying, probing.  John finally had to bare his teeth and growl a few times to get people to back off.  The boy had been through enough; he didn’t need to be dissected in order to try and find out why he’d lived.  Dr. Metzger seemed profoundly baffled by the events—spooked even.  After all the tests had been run and then run again, the surgeon had been left scratching his head over the data.  The herniation in Dean’s head was gone—not merely reduced or subsided, but gone—as though if it had never been there at all.  The brain showed no signs of bleeding from the rupture, no damage from a stroke.  Even the Oculomotor Nerve Palsy in Dean’s eye had all but disappeared, and both pupils reacted equally to light.  A second angiogram showed nothing beyond the clipped aneurysm.  There was no other sign of insult beyond the surgery site where the skull had been drilled and sawed, and that was beginning to heal.  Dean had fought against the ventilator so vehemently that first night that they’d simply removed it by morning, and other than the infection that was being dealt with, he was breathing well with just a little oxygen.

Sam, of course, was the only one completely unruffled.  He knew what had occurred, or the kid _thought_ he knew.  He was adamant that God had performed a miracle.  The child had convinced himself that he’d felt it happen, was sure he knew the exact moment when Dean had been healed.  It was his _skinwalker reasoning_ all over again. At this point, though, John let the kid have his delusions.  He’d work him over later, condition his son to accept reality.  A hunter couldn’t afford to cling to fantasies.  But right now, there were other issues more pressing.  He’d let Sam get his feet under him again.  He’d gone through hell.  John knew that; he’d been there himself.  The hunter had, in fact, already found the nearest liquor store and had smuggled the bottle into the hospital under his jacket.  If Sam needed his delusion to get him through the night, he’d let him have his crutch.  For now.

More twitchy, fussy movements from Dean brought John out of his thoughts.  The teen had been in and out of it all day, but he hadn’t shown any real recognition or coherence yet.  Sam was anxious for his brother to wake up, but John was grateful for just being able to sit and hold his son’s fever-warm hand.  It was enough.  John watched Dean weave in and out of consciousness, patiently stroking his chest, patting it lightly.  Dean grew more restless and fought harder against his dream.

“Shhhh, sport.  You’re all right.  Relax, buddy,” he soothed.  The heart monitor began to spike, and Dean’s eyes flew open.  His unfocused eyes roamed around until they landed on his father.  Dean rasped out his first attempt at speech.

 “Angel?” he said, but the word was so random John wasn’t sure he’d heard right.  Dean’s voice had been shredded by the ventilator it was hard to understand him.  The teen’s eyes were glassy and confused. 

“Easy son,” he said, but Dean was already struggling.  Sam flew out of his chair and hovered close, reaching for Dean’s hand.

“You’re all right, Dean,” Sam said.  “We’re here.”  He patted his brother’s arm.  “We’re here.”

“Where…?” Dean scraped out.  He looked lost and his eyes searched the ceiling, tilting his head back and crying out when he was stopped by the pressure and pain in his head. 

“You’re in the hospital, Dean,” John said.  “You’ve been sick.  They had to transfer you to Phoenix and perform surgery on the aneurysm, but you’re all right, son.  You’re all right.”  Tears filled John’s eyes as he repeated the words.  “Don’t move, now.”  Dean tried to shake his head but was again stopped cold by spikes of pain.  He closed his eyes, retreating into himself.  The teen wrenched out a pitiful groan.

“No…” Dean tried again after catching his breath.  “Where…where’s the angel?” he said, straining to focus his thoughts.  “Angel with big wings.  Angel wings.  You see him?”

John raised his eyebrows.  He wasn’t sure if his son was still aphasic or if he was hallucinating from the fever.  It didn’t matter.  The boy was becoming too agitated.  The nurse at the station noticed and winged over. 

“How’s he doing?” she asked, fiddling with the heart monitor. 

“He’s waking up, but he’s in pain and very confused,” he told the woman.

“Dad?” Dean said, his eyes opening again.  “He here?”

“I’m here, buddy,” John tried to assure his son.  “I’m here.”

Dean’s brows pleated.  “No Dad… _the angel_.  He here?”

“What angel, Dean?”

“Big one.  Gold wings.  You godda…tell’im,” he gulped out. 

The nurse emptied a vial into his IV port and continued to watch his vitals.  “Bless his soul,” she said kindly.  “This will help,” she assured John as he looked at her with worry and gratitude. 

“Dad…” Dean tried again, but the hunter could see the medication working quickly.  “Tell him…y’godda tell him f’me.”

“Tell who what, Ace?” John said.

“The _angel_ , Dad!  Tell’im…tell’im…”  Dean’s eyes slipped shut.  “Tell’im _thanks_ ,” he said, and he was out again. 

The nurse monitored the boy until she was satisfied and left the Winchesters to resume their vigil.  Sam had been sitting quiet, trying to digest everything that had just happened.  Finally he stirred and looked at his father.

“Holy _shit_!” he said, in jaw-dropping, wide-eyed awe.  “An angel saved Dean!  I _knew_ it!”

John looked confused and a little frightened.  “Watch your mouth,” he scolded.  “And don’t be ridiculous.  Dean’s delirious.  There’s no such thing as angels.”

* *

It was much easier than Dean thought it would be.  Despite being weak and feverish, all he had to do was quietly focus as the morphine took hold, and he soon felt that familiar vibration in his spine, like the plucking of a steel string.  There was a buzzing pressure in his head, and with a static pop he was out and falling through the tunnel.  Just like that.  The angel spun around from the window, his eyes growing large.

“Dean,” he said.  His feathers tossed arcs of light into the air in his surprise.  “What are you doing here?”

The boy tottered a moment.  “Whoa…what a rush,” he said with an opiate smile.  He shook his head a moment.  “Kumbaya, dude.  Know what I’m sayin’?”  The angel was at his side in an instant, steadying him.  Dean grinned drunkenly. 

“No, I do not,” the angel said hesitantly.  Dean laughed and patted his shoulder.  The boy took a moment to come down from his journey through the tunnel.  He finally straightened up.

“There, I’m good,” he said with a final shake of his head.  “I guess I might just be getting the hang of this after all,” the teen laughed a little.  “You never know, this could come in handy sometime.”

“You should not leave your body willingly,” the angel scolded.  “I won’t always be here to watch over it.  Many creatures prey upon abandoned bodies.  Don’t make a habit of this.  It’s dangerous.”

“Alright, alright,” the teen whistled out.  “Geez, Grouchie McGroucherton,” he snickered.  “I just wanted to come and thank you.  I know what you did.  I know you stuck your neck out for me, and…well…I’m really grateful, man.  I owe you one.”

“You’re welcome, Dean,” he said.  “You’re already looking much better.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Feeling like shit never felt so good,” he laughed.  “But I’m on the mend,” he said.  “And I know it was all you.”  The angel and boy grew quiet as they watched each other.  Dean cleared his throat and broke the silence.  “So, did your dad go apeshit?”

The angel’s wings drooped slightly and his face seemed somewhat distressed.  “My Father remains mute on the subject.  I can’t figure out why.  My brothers on the other hand…”  He raised an eyebrow.  “They have indeed defecated like apes.”  Dean laughed out loud at that.  “They’re very unhappy with me, but they will do nothing unless my Father tells them to.  It is perhaps rather hypocritical of me, but I must confess I’m grateful for their obedience.”

Dean nodded and scratched his chin.  “Yeah, I guess.  So what happens now?  Do I gotta do something for you?  Am I gonna have to fulfill that prophecy or whatever?  Am I stuck being Heaven’s bitch?”

“I don’t know what the future holds, truly,” the angel said.  “Angels can plan for the future, but they can’t foresee it.  I don’t know how things will unfold, but I didn’t heal you because of some destiny or because I wanted to fulfill prophecy.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“I did it because your brother was right.  You are needed here more,” he said.  Then he paused.  “But mostly I did it because that is what my heart told me to do.”

Dean looked at him with mock reproach.  “Better watch yourself, you rebel,” he cautioned.  “Next thing you know you’ll be smokin’ weed and havin’ orgies.  Big damn, hippy angel.  Get a haircut,” he teased. 

“Indeed,” the angel conceded.  “Then again, perhaps I’m not as rebellious as my actions would lead one to believe.  Maybe it was my Father’s will all along.”

Dean nodded.  “Maybe.  I told you, dads can be really confusing.  One minute you think you’ve completely screwed up, and the next they’re telling you that you made the right call.  Who can figure ‘em out?”

“Truly,” the angel acknowledged. 

Dean moved to the window and looked out as the sun set over the wheat field.  “So, will I ever see you again?”  The angel looked at him wistfully.  Dean noticed for the first time that he was holding a small shaft of golden wheat in his hand.  The angel turned and tossed it out of the window, and they both watched it dance and tumble away in the wind.

“Perhaps,” he said. 

Dean was quiet for a moment.  “Cool.  You know, I never did even ask your name.  You do have one, right?”

“I do,” the angel responded.

Dean waited a beat and then laughed.  “That’s your cue, Einstein,” he nudged his friend.  The angel turned and spoke his name, and Dean smiled.  “Cool,” he said again and then grinned wide.  “Kind of a wussy name if you ask me.”  His eyes sparkled puckishly.  “But it’s cool.”

“It is rather old fashioned,” the angel agreed. The angel stretched his wings and folded his arms.  “It’s time that you went back.  It’s not safe for you to be here any longer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said.  “But, um, now that I’m getting the knack of this in-and-out business, you know…uh…maybe I can come visit once in a while, yeah?  It’d be nice having an angel on my side, you know?”  He scratched his head and looked awkward, “I mean, you’re kind of all right for a nerdy angel, even if you do talk like Gandalf.” 

The angel shook his head placidly.  “Maybe one day, but that time has not yet come.  Until then…be well, my friend.  You will not remember, but I promise that I will continue to watch over you,” he said very gently.  And standing face to face, the angel extended two incandescent fingers and gently touched them to Dean’s surprised forehead.

* *

They’d finally left Phoenix about three weeks after Dean’s surgery.  The boy had weakened in the days after his initial, strange recovery due to a bout of vent-associated pneumonia.  But after a dose of strong antibiotics, Dean slowly gained enough strength to leave without kicking up too much fuss from his doctor.  Dr. Metzger had been so perplexed by the situation that he’d seemed to have given up trying to understand Dean’s recovery.  Other than a nearly imperceptible wander to one of his eyes, Dean had suffered no permanent damage from the rupture and stroke.  Truth to tell, John got the feeling that the surgeon was simply glad to see them go.  Their presence seemed to make the doctor uncomfortable, as though he wanted to write the whole thing off and try and forget the inexplicable.

John understood that mentality.  The hunter didn’t really care to know what had happened or why.  It was enough just having Dean back with them.  Some things were best left in the dark.  Sam on the other hand…he was on the verge of storming the nearest church or calling the _Weekly World News_ —one of the two.

Dean was still as weak as a kitten when they’d finally left the Barrow Institute and caught the midnight Greyhound up to Provo.  He’d fallen asleep just after departing and slept the entire way back to Utah.  He never once mentioned the Grand Canyon or asked to stop.  John made a promise to himself, though, that as soon as Dean was well enough he’d take him there.  He meant it this time.  He really did. 

Once back in Provo, though, they’d all been itchy and restless.  John had called his boss and found that he’d been let go for not calling in, so to Sam’s and Dean’s utter delight, he’d contacted Bobby.  The old hunter had bitched him up one side and down the other, using some of the most creative invectives John had ever heard.  He’d then followed that up by ordering John to bring the boys and stay at his place as long as they needed while Dean recovered.  The Impala was packed and they were ready to go.  They just had one quick stop to make first, and then they would be on their way.  John had no problem shaking the dust of Utah off his boots.

Sitting next to his father in the front seat, Dean was just glad to be on the road again.  He felt much better with the Impala’s rumbled purr soothing him.  He was tired as hell, but he was at peace—or would be if Sam would ever stop with his incessant inquisition. 

“You’ve been smokin’ a little too much crack, there, little man,” Dean said.  Weak or not, he was well enough to be cranky and irritable, and his brother didn’t seem to know when to give it a rest.  Dean was positively sick of hearing about angels and miracles. 

“But when you first woke up you said so.  You said you’d been talking to an angel.  Maybe he put a whammie on you to forget everything.  It’s probably against the rules to know all about angels.  Don’t you think?” Sam insisted. 

“Dude, I was talkin’ out of my head,” Dean snorted.  “I was on every drug known to man, and I had just had brain surgery.  Don’t you remember when I had the chicken pox?  I swore up and down that Dad had gummy-bears jumping out of his ears.  Cut me some slack, will ya?  I was…” Dean whistled like a coo-coo and swirled his finger around his ear. 

“You really don’t remember, Dean?” Sam asked.

“Dude, what part of being comatose and having brain-surgery don’t you understand?”

Sam remained undaunted.  “Then how did you get better?  How did he get better, Dad?”  Sam turned to his father who was maneuvering the Impala off the freeway.

“Oh Lord, he’s after you now, Dad,” Dean laughed. 

 “Well?” Sam prompted.  “How’d he get better?  You know how bad it was, Dad.”  John looked at the boy through the rearview mirror, and they shared a pained glance, reliving those cruel days they’d spent together at Dean’s bedside.  They hadn’t been able to clearly convey to Dean what they had endured during those dark hours.  It had just been too hard for them, and neither wanted the reminder.  Dean rolled his eyes.

“I told you.  I’m Batman.  Nothing keeps me down,” he said, reaching back to take a swipe at his brother.  He missed, but he didn’t have the strength or inclination to try again.  He curled his arm behind his head and leaned against the window watching the foothills of Provo blur past him until his eyes slipped shut.

After a few more minutes, John turned the car into the hospital parking lot.  “We’re here, Dean,” he said.  The boy’s eyes opened and he looked up at the building.  It was a long way up to Pediatrics.  “You want me to go get a chair?” John asked, having heard the kid’s tired sigh.

Dean let his glare do the talking for him.  John shook his head and jumped out of the car, hopping around to the passenger side.  He gripped Dean’s elbow and helped him out of the car.  Even bundled in the thick hoodie he was wearing, he was still cold and frail.  The hood was pulled up over his head, strings slightly drawn—enough so that his bandages couldn’t be seen.  Dean was very self-conscious about his head.  The thick bandages had all been removed except for a thin, sterile cap, but he didn’t like people seeing it and chose to keep his hood up even when he was in the house.

“Maybe we should just go,” Dean said, nervously.  “They probably won’t even remember who I am,” he said, on the verge of chickening out.

“You said you wanted to thank them.  They know you’re coming.  They’re expecting you, Dean.  Now, move your ass.”  John slipped his arm around the teen’s waist and helped him into the building.  They moved slowly, but the threesome eventually found their way up to the Pediatrics Unit.  Dean was disappointed when they reached the nurse’s station.  He didn’t recognize anyone. 

“Hi,” John said.  “This is Dean Winchester.  We’re here to see Dr. Michaels.”

“Oh, Mr. Winchester,” she said.  “Yes, he’s waiting for you in Conference Room 10B; it’s right at the end of the hall, there.”  She pointed and gave John a knowing smile.  “You can go right on in.”  John gave her a nod and a wink.  As they walked away, following her directions, she reached for her phone. 

Dean clicked his tongue.  “Man, what a jip.  I was hoping to see Angie again.”  He gave his father a cock-eyed grin.  “And Layla and Nan.  Mmm-mm-mm!” he hummed at the memory.  “Best freakin’ massages in the world, dude.  They could open a spa.” 

“Uh huh,” John said, rolling his eyes.  He stopped in front of the conference room.  Pushing the door open, he put his hands on Dean’s shoulders from behind and steered him into the dark room.

“Um, Dad?” he said.  “Wrong room.” Just then the lights flipped on.

 _“Surprise!”_ a chorus of voices rang out, and Dean was hit by a poof of streamers and glitter from hand-held confetti launchers.  The boy looked around in complete and utter amazement and confusion.  There was a huge _Happy Birthday Dean!_ banner sagging between the walls.  He saw a large cake, a pile of presents, balloons, and several beaming faces in ridiculous, cone-shaped party hats.   Dr. Michaels was there, and Angie, too.  Dean saw Nan and Layla, Sophia and her garrison of nurses from the ICU, even Muriel, the mean nurse who had scolded him non-stop the entire week he’d been on her floor.  They were all there.

“What the…” Dean marveled.  He looked amazed, embarrassed and more than a little flustered.  “It’s not my birthday,” he broke the news to them.  They laughed.

“We know,” Angie said, coming to him and giving him a hug.  “We heard that you got sick on your birthday and weren’t able to celebrate.  We wanted to make sure you got your party.  Sixteen years old!” she blew out a breath.  “That’s a pretty awesome milestone!”

“Here,” Layla said with a laugh.  “Let’s all take a picture in front of the cake and presents and then we can all dig in!”  The young, beautiful nurse gave Dean a kiss on his cheek.  “You are looking so good, sweetheart,” she said.  “We were all praying for you.”  Everyone nodded.  They pulled Dean to them and gathered around.  Muriel handed her camera to John so that he could snap the photo. 

Dean was abashed but deeply, deeply touched.  “You guys are the best,” he said shyly.  He cleared his throat and stood there, shifting awkwardly.  Finally he looked up at them.  “I heard what you guys did, and…” he fumbled.  “And I know I wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for all of you.  You all went out on a limb for me, and I just,” he pulled at the strings of his hoodie, dithering.  “I just really want to say thanks.  You didn’t even know me, but you saved my life, and that’s…” He stood still, overcome and embarrassed.  The room quieted.  “That’s a lot.  I really…just… _thank you_.  All of you.”  He cleared his throat again.  Muriel reached for a tissue and wiped her eye. 

“Come on, now,” John scolded with a laugh.  “I can’t take this picture until I see some smiling faces.” 

“Here, Dean,” Nan grabbed him.  “You stand right in the middle,” she said.  Everyone else drew in close, flanking him, creating a halo of happy faces around his. 

And as his father snapped that picture, Dean couldn’t help but think about how unfortunate it was that he always felt the need to shut people out.  He’d spent his life feeling so isolated and separate and _different_.  Perhaps it was the way his family lived or the things he knew that most people didn’t—the things that he didn’t want them to ever know about.  He knew that real evil existed in the world, and he wanted to protect them from it.  Part of doing that meant keeping a safe distance from all of them.  As hard as the last month had been, he’d learned a lot about humans from this experience. He’d never known until now just how truly good people could be.  They really were wondrous, complicated creatures.

His brother was convinced that angels had been involved, that somehow Dean had been miraculously healed by divine intervention.  Maybe Sam was right; maybe he wasn’t.  Maybe the angels in this story had all been wearing white lab coats and scrubs instead of robes and sparkling wings.  Maybe _they_ had been his miracle.  Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was.  Maybe angels _were_ watching. 

**_The End_ **


End file.
